


Clever Boy

by MostFacinorous



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Come Play With Me, Dub con blow job, Interactive, M/M, solve it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 49,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh no no, clever boy, give your mind a moment to catch up." The first thing he heard was brought about by the slamming shut of his eyelids. He'd tried to open them, but found the world suddenly too bright. Painfully so, and the throbbing heat in his head and face gave him a momentary panic. Not a fever though, nothing that would threaten permanent damage from the heat, but lights trained on him. Close by lights, or those like on a stage, hot white lights. No mood affecting colored gels. Stark lights. The sort used for interrogations. </p><p>Ah.<br/>---<br/>It starts out with Q kidnapped by Silva, and ends with a mission for you, the reader.<br/>All the clues you need are in the first two acts of the story; the solution will be in the third.</p><p>EDIT: antiheroical solved it! Congrats, and excellent work!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One

One.

"Oh no no, clever boy, give your mind a moment to catch up." The first thing he heard was brought about by the slamming shut of his eyelids. He'd tried to open them, but found the world suddenly too bright. Painfully so, and the throbbing heat in his head and face gave him a momentary panic. Not a fever though, nothing that would threaten permanent damage from the heat, but lights trained on him. Close by lights, or those like on a stage, hot white lights. No mood affecting colored gels. Stark lights. The sort used for interrogations. 

Ah. 

"There you go, you're catching on, I see your brow smoothing out. Yes, hellooo Mister Q, I am talking to you." 

Fingers, which had moments ago pulled at the skin of his forehead, now ventured down into his eye sockets, blunt and strong and prizing open his eyelids far more gently than he would have guessed.  
He twitched his head away and opened his eyes, blinking again at the bright lights, and the lemon blonde hair that perched above Silva's pink-tanned face. He blinked, trying desperately to focus, but everything beyond Silva's nose was beyond him, unless he squinted. 

"Why have you taken me?" He's proud not to sound petulant, but his voice is rusty, rough, unused, or, judging by the burning soreness of his shoulders, perhaps misused—He suspected he'd been tortured or at least kept uncomfortable while he was out. 

Thank goodness for the required security under duress training courses, though—at least he knew it was unlikely he'd betrayed Mother England while he was unconscious.  
Duly unlikely, even, because he was still alive, suggesting that he had yet to proffer whatever it was that Silva wanted.

"My boy, you're here to help me." Silva was grinning as though he'd just given Q a gift of some sort, something he was just certain would be appreciated. 

"Right, well, I'm going to have a hard time of that with my arms tied and my glasses off, aren't I?" He responded, mild and peevish and already thinking as quickly as he could, though at a disadvantage, being unable to see his surroundings. There were men stationed around, of that much he was sure, but as for the rest of it… it all resembled strangely colored mashed potatoes, and blinking lights in with them. 

"How rude of me, yes, of course." He untied him himself, immediately, and without a second thought, which Q-- ever mindful of his own lack of physicality-- found slightly insulting. He knew though that he had to not let it get to him. Thus far, it seemed this man was his equal or at least above average, insofar as his technological knowledge, and his past as a field agent lent him the type of brawn that Q had no real means of guarding himself against. He was outclassed, but he thought perhaps if he played up his physical weakness, he would have a chance of being underestimated all around. 

Like a checkers piece—he's so close to the other side of the board now that he can feel Silva's breath on his cheek. But there has to be a reason for him to have been brought so close. He isn't Bond. So why?

His glasses are gently slid into place, and a single finger pushes them up the bridge of his nose.  
He goes nearly cross eyed, following the progress of the offending digit distrustfully.

"Now, Q, it is such an honor to meet you, really. Your programming creations are absolutely admirable—the coding, so elegant and simple and understated and yet so powerful. I have to say I am a fan." 

His pride stung to have to say it, but that was what the training was there for. 

"Programming? I don't know what you're talking about. My name is Thomas… I work in research marketing. The only programming I do is heating my oven at ho—"  
His spiel is cut off by a quick slap to his face, the kind that stings and is loud but doesn't really hurt after a few moments of blood bum rushing the surface of his skin. 

"I've been very courteous to you, Q, and I expect in return the same courtesies. Now, you have seen my work, my computer, my polymorphic security algorithms… I know that you were impressed. I would have been, too. And I am impressed with you, with your quick mastery of it. But I need you to do better than that, I need you to make me something stronger."

Q rubbed at his cheek, the hand coming up a little slowly, because his training actually told him not to show any weakness, and he was now trying to play it up. Going against procedure would get him a talking to, but then, when he got his job by hacking MI6, he doesn't know if they really expected him to play by the rules anyway. Besides, everyone knew that it was the field agents that those courses were intended for. People better suited for other means of defense. 

"I really don't know what you expect me to do about it. Your algorithms are flawed and slow, and it wasn't even any amount of my programming that took it apart—007 recognized letter patterns. You've got the wrong man." He made his voice intentionally small and a little bitter. 

"I see." Silva seemed to be digesting that, contemplating. He turned and walked a few steps away, his hands behind his back. Q worried for a moment that once he was clear, he would simply order his men to shoot him, and it would be done. 

Q let his shoulders droop and squeezed his eyes shut, flinching in preparation for either Silva's turn or the order for his death. Perhaps not the most valiant and lofty way to go, but it would have to do. For Queen and Country. 

"No, this is good!" Silva crowed, spinning with what Q was quickly coming to see as his signature flair. "Old guard against the new—you need to prove yourself. Bond is antiquated, part of the past, not able to move into the future. You are that future. You and I, we understand… a keystroke, a click, and the world can be yours, can it not? Bond is but one man, but you and I, we can be anywhere. Everywhere. MI6, it is all that way, so rooted in brick and mortar, so stuck in their webs of lies and contact that they can't see the value that is the web of technology, internet, computers… they see only a fraction of the possibility." He walked back closer, until he stood just in front of Q, too close for comfort. 

"I like potential, Mister Q, I pride myself in seizing it, in recognizing it, no matter the appearance, in never letting it pass by. And I see much potential in you, and more besides." 

A moment of tense silence passed, as Silva's eyes darted around Q's face, downwards, and a hand rose to brush mockingly, deceptively careful fingers across his jaw line. 

Q jerked back, the reaction not feigned in the least, and a slow smile spread across Silva's lips. 

"What do they teach you young people these days? Do they think you will always be safe, behind your code names and your glowing screens, your thick plastic lenses?" He tsked as though disappointed, and pressed his advantage, stepping in closer. 

Q found himself backing up, until he was forced to stop by the rough meeting of a computer system and his back. He put his hands up, palms out, supplemental, as though he actually believed his thinly muscled arms had a hope of pushing Silva back. 

"I'm not—whatever you think, that isn't me." He tried again, and Silva froze. He took a deep breath and then dropped his shoulder and chin while he sighed, the action far more suited for a stage, and people watching from afar than this sort of close quarters observation—here it just seemed overly dramatic. 

Q's eyes darted to the men arranged around the room—three of them, armed, rifles carried out in the open and strapped across their chests. Good trigger etiquette, fingers all laying straight and outside of the trigger guards, but still ready to point and fire at the least provocation.  
His eyes fell back on Silva as he rose again. 

"Q. Richard. Rich? Ricky? Dick perhaps? Yes, that's right. You forgot that I have accessed M's computer, I have seen and know all there is to about you and every other operative, agent, and staffer. I can tell you the story of your sad upbringing, tell you of the orphanage, the way your parents died…. MI6 has a certain fondness for orphans, did you notice?" He paused for a fraction of a second, not long enough for Q to respond even if he'd been so inclined. "I'm sure you did. You are, after all, the best. So. Quit with this cat and mouse, and show me. Yes?" 

"Show you… what exactly? You want a practical demonstration? Surely you know that writing something like what you're talking about isn't like a piano recital. It would take me days, maybe a month, maybe more—testing and fixing and more testing…" He trailed off, disarmed by Silva's grin. 

"You do not expect me to simply leave you with access to a computer and expect you to be a good boy and play nicely do you?" Silva chuckled, the sound low and rich and deep. Q's stomach sank.  
He had been hoping, at least. 

"Then how do you expect me to be of any use at all?" He snapped, suddenly testy. He'd been knocked out, drugged, tied up, half of his clothing had been removed, he didn't know how long he'd been missing, or how long since he last ate, he didn't know what Silva intended to do to him, didn't know when or if there would be a rescue. He had made absolutely no advancements towards getting himself out of this—some great agent he was—and now even his purpose for being here was getting muddled. 

Silva tapped his finger on his lips, his elbow resting on his other arm, crossed over his chest. He looked, above all else, amused. And it was infuriating. 

"I think perhaps we should first see to your needs. You like tea, yes? Earl Grey. Just a touch of cream—though you often forget to shop, and substitute milk, am I wrong? No? Good. And let's see… you favor one man meals, the sort you can microwave and eat while at your desk. You'll have none of that here. I think you'll find dinner a far more formal affair. Stefan will show you to your room. Clean up, dress, and he will wait outside for you, to show you to supper. This has no need to be unpleasant at all, unless you make it. And we are monitoring for outgoing signals—do not suppose me so much a fool as to make the same mistake twice. If you try to call for help, we will replicate the signal and bounce it off of every mountain range in the world, and then you will pay for it. Are we understood?"

"Perfectly." Q said succinctly. Silva nodded once, and then tilted his head for Stefan to take Q away. 

Once the door had closed behind him, he wanted nothing more than to rip off the dirtied rags that were all that remained of his clothes, but the ache in his arms, his shoulders, his back, his head, all of that prevented it. He moved carefully, afraid to cause himself any more undue pain… or accidental damage, in case he did need to draw upon his already lacking physical force. He felt a little dizzy, a little weak, and he was exhausted despite having just woken. The drugs perhaps, or low blood sugar. It hardly mattered, at the moment.

The shower water was warm, not quite hot enough to relax the protesting muscles, but only so that the water wasn't frigid, and even for that small mercy he was grateful. 

He came back into the room and stared longingly at the bed. He had a feeling that as soon as he started refusing to work, he would be denied access to it. He wasn't looking forward to whatever came next. 

Still, he was hungry, and if Silva planned to drug him through his food, at least there would be nourishment in there besides. 

He dressed, again more carefully than he would usually, though he had been glad to find no real lasting damage, when he'd showered. Marks in his wrists from injections, scabbing over now. The burn in his shoulders. Minor surface lacerations on wrists, ankles, and neck. Nothing that would impair his usefulness. Yet.

And then he hesitated before the bedroom door. He wasn't sure whether to open it, or knock, and he cast one last quick look around, making sure there was absolutely nothing that he might be able to use to gain an advantage. But there would be nothing, he knew. 

He knocked. 

The door swung inwards and the same man, Stefan, gestured that Q should precede him. He directed Q's movements with gentle taps with his gun, which he didn't remark on, but found unnecessarily barbaric. 

The halls were a shambles, and Q found himself wincing ever so slightly, because the architecture could well have been beautiful. Had been, once.  
But the door he was escorted to and left at opened into a dining room every bit as modern and plush as his bedroom. 

Silva sat at the head of the table, his fingers interlaced and lips resting on his hands, elbows planted on the table, eyes staring off into the wine in the glass goblet before him.  
The light from the chandelier above the table cast a red pool of light on the linen under his glass, and Q would have liked to have a moment to just observe his captor in his reflections, but as the door clicked closed behind him, Silva looked up and then stood, his theatrical smile in place, his arm swooping upwards in a welcoming gesture. 

"Come, you may have the place of honor—lucky for you, your Bond got to my Severine, elsewise you might have to fight her over who had to sit to the left. But, come, let me pour you some wine, and call for our food." 

Q approached cautiously, and found himself squinting at the wine, calculating, while he sat down. 

Silva's glass had already been poured. Perhaps he had drugged the bottle after pouring it? 

As though noticing his hesitation, or perhaps because he actually had had at least half of his glass already, Silva poured himself some of the wine as well.  
He lifted his glass and raised an eyebrow, reclaiming his seat and taking a sip. 

Q seized his own glass, peering at the bottom, searching for any sign of a powder that would still be in the process of dissolving. Of course he knew better—the glass could have been dipped in any drug, and there was still the food itself. But he hadn't received field training, and he wanted to be a credit to himself. 

Silva, at least was nodding.  
"You will not be poisoned at my table, Richard. May I call you that? Richard?" 

"I think I'd prefer Q, if it's all the same to you." His words are stilted, but Silva just nodded graciously. 

"Of course, we'll get to know each other first. We have the time after all. Ah, here we are!"  
Men, possibly the same ones who had previously been carrying the guns, now entered bearing a far more welcome sight—a serving bowl of mashed potatoes, a plate of drumsticks. Green bean casserole. Dinner rolls. Salad. A gravy boat. Dressing boats. 

At the smell alone, Q's stomach lurched angrily, and he realized quite suddenly how much it felt like it was angling to touch his spine. 

Silva laughed, perhaps at the expression on his face. 

"It took them four days to get you here. Of course you were kept in a state of semi-health thanks to intravenous feeding, but I'm sure you're famished. Please—help yourself." 

Four days. Likely that meant they had taken a plane at least once—he couldn't repress a shiver at that, and he hoped that it was written off as simply being an aversion to the thought of needles. He was glad he'd been unconscious. He never wanted to fly, ever. The knowledge that he had, more as luggage than as a human being, made him feel sick to his stomach, or would have if the food hadn't been there, overpowering such petty things as nerves.

Q didn't miss the fact that the meat had been selected to be one that wouldn't require a knife. Again, he didn't comment. Didn't feel the need to draw attention to his attentiveness. 

And then he didn't really care, because it was in his mouth and dear God, he hadn't ever tasted anything so good. 

Silva ate as well, taking small, polite bites, and watched Q go. Q was truly beyond caring, though, and was eating like a barbarian.  
Finally he had his fill, and cleaned his fingers and mouth almost sheepishly. 

Silva had been quiet, almost thoughtful again, and he hoped that the time he'd spent eating hadn't been spent dreaming up exotic tortures for him. After all, Silva was familiar with Q's records, but Q was just as intimately versed in the details of Silva's life and deeds. 

He sat, unsure what to say, what to expect. His lids were drooping, but he was too anxious to sleep. 

Silva's voice, sudden in the quiet, made him jump a little, and he flushed at his surprise.  
"After I eat, I enjoy a walk of my island. Would you care to join me? If you're to spend time here—which you are—it would be best if you were to be familiar with your surroundings. I see no reason to keep you under guard at all times—so long as you accept that if you build a signaling device, it will be jammed and you will be punished, and if you build a weapon, it will be confiscated, and you will be maimed. And we wouldn't want that, now, would we?" His voice was unbearably pleasant, like a doting father speaking to a demanding child.

"I'm not—I don't know exactly what you think you need me for. You seem technologically capable enough. And until such a time as MI6 comes after you, I don't have much choice but to stay here, have I? So…"  
He ignored Silva's proffered hand, and stood on his own. Silva's smile faded. 

"I have a limited tolerance for rudeness, Mister Q. But perhaps after you've had the tour, you'll be a bit more receptive to what I have to tell you." 

He led them outside, followed by two armed men who stood back a little way, but who were there just the same. 

"Welcome to Hashima—nicknamed Gankanjima."

"Battleship?" Q interrupted, and Silva nodded, smiling. Pleased. 

"Very good, mister Q. Named for its shape and size—140 meters by 400 meters. My own floating fortress." He paused, as though waiting for some form of praise, but when none was forthcoming, he steered Q towards the nearest building with a gentle hand on his elbow. 

" This is the 'hotel'—not the actual one, there was one you see-- but this was more of… temporary housing, where families would stay while they figured out where to put them. Can you imagine five thousand people all living here, on this tiny spit of land? One on top of another, fighting for air, for space, for recognition, for a job, a place to live…for a life? But when you want something, I find it is much easier to not fight the flow of humanity, but to go beneath it, outwit it, and just take it over. I never had to touch a single person on this island. I never had to even see them myself. I simply reached out and took what I wanted. And you, Q? Have you ever simply taken something for no other reason than because you wanted it?" Again, that deceptive, half heart beat of a pause. "It is most gratifying, I promise you." He aimed a sly half grin at him, and Q felt his pulse speed up, the tensions surrounding this entire jaunt suddenly overwhelming. He felt tired, full, and maybe Silva had slipped him something after all. 

He allowed himself to be guided through the back wall of the building, long since reduced to rubble that had been partially cleared. They followed the curve of a walkway, built as a border for what was clearly once a playground, now buried in the fallen remains of housing walls from stories above them. 

The whole thing was disconcerting. What was to stop more from falling now, on them, even? Was that the point? To prove that without his guidance, anyplace Q might try to hide, he could be harmed in? 

Escape was out of the question. He wasn't familiar with this island or its location on the globe. He could try and swim, but who knew which direction he would have to go, or how long he would need to… no, he was not built for that. 

The game would be to survive. And if that meant playing along, then so be it. He reckoned he could give it a go. 

"Coalmining was the thing that brought them here, and around that sprung up a whole little world. The hospital you have been inside of. It is where we have built our base. But they built everything, schools, malls, a church. We have our own graveyard, even, can you imagine? You could be born here, live here, die here, never leave this island, never know the rest of the world. But then, you understand that, don't you? You are kept in a lab for such long hours, it is a surprise your skin does not blister at the instant of the sun's caress."

"Yes well, my first practical invention was a personal UV barrier. It allows the common lab rat to keep his snowy complexion and still step into the daylight once in a blue moon." He delivered it dry and deadpan, as he did most things.

Silva let out a bark of laughter that was so unlike his restrained, soft chuckles that Q didn't quite know what to do with himself. Even the man's laugh was off-putting.

Silva clapped a hand to the back of his shoulder.  
"I suppose I deserve that, yes. Come, though, I have more to show you—this way." He led the way to a narrow corridor and up a flight of stairs, through a series of rooms, and out onto another flight of stairs.

"Everything was constructed so close together, that you must take a long series of winding stairs to reach anywhere. The stairs to hell, they call these. I have little need to use them, but I do, at times. When I wish to think. Or when I wish to show off the school. This way." 

Q was short of breath by the time they reached the next landing, but he played it up a little more than necessary, gasping and pretending to be trying to hide it. Silva's lips quirked, and he was afraid he was being too obvious, so he swallowed, as though fighting down the panting.

"So you say you never had to meet or touch anyone—how did you lure them off, how did you convince them to leave so much of their lives behind?" Q asked, sounding breathless and glimpsing the insides of dilapidated rooms, still fully furnished, though everything was sun and water damaged. There had been some shift now, where he had decided to reciprocate, at least verbally, and now he was looking for information. Any information. Something had to be helpful, somehow.

"I simply set off all the warning systems on the island, made it look like a chemical leak. And they didn't bother wondering how all the failsafes had fallen at once, did not question—they just fled. Evacuation was immediate, and it being coal that brought them, by the time this place would have been cleared for return, I had manipulated the stocks so that the shares in petroleum took a jump, and it became a hot commodity. And so the island was left and became mine."

"And all remotely." Q murmured, quietly impressed. "Like the bombing of MI6." 

"Precisely." Silva said, popping his lip at the plosive and sounding pleased that Q had remembered. Or perhaps just pleased to be reminded.

"Here, the classrooms. Little desks, all strewn about, fallen over. Pushed there by looters or the elements, maybe my men. Big desk at the front, see how it presides over the room? Unmoving. Uncaring. While the smaller ones are toppled, broken. And here, this black board… it seems your style. Something you would appreciate. Is it? Would you like one, for writing out your theories? I can have my men get you one from the mainlands. Not this one of course—I fear removing it from the wall would cause it to crack. "

His words trailed back as Q made his way inside, stepping carefully through the debris on the floors. Not entirely about the island, then, but a commentary on himself, on his position within MI6. A warning in a fairy tale, in a guided tour. Well then. 

"I'm used to working almost entirely on computers, but if I am to be denied that, then yes, a chalk board is good, as would be a notebook and pencils. Actually—if you could see through to giving me a type writer, perhaps? Closer to my normal mode of input." 

"You would not hand me a gun nor a sword if it was I who was being held. You are as deadly with your chosen weapon as any master combatant. Do not expect me to forget that because your tongue grows quick or your eyes large."  
Silva patted Q's cheek and Q became aware of his longer than usual facial hair. He preferred to be clean shaven but with as restrictive as they'd been, it didn't seem likely he would be that way again any time soon. 

"I have one final place I wish to show you. The end of the island, the far point from the hospital." 

They walked in silence, Q simply looking around, seeing the disaster that had become of the islanders' lives. 

"Here we are. These walls have been beaten at by the waves for so long, you see where they have fallen in?" He pointed, and Q could see. "And the rooms inside, rotted and unstable, the wood giving out and the concrete crumbling. Much like the structure of the old world, the world MI6 insists on living in. But here—look where we have built within those walls…" He had draped an arm across Q's shoulder, and now he led them forward, until Q could see what he meant.  
"—we let the old walls take the brunt of the punishment still, but we have reinforced it with steel and sealed it against the moisture. Even if the original building were to fall down on this area, nothing would be harmed. Aside from the noise, if you were inside, you may not even notice."

It was true, the structure was sound. It resembled the sides of a suspension bridge, with all of the support they had built into it.  
He turned to look at Silva, waiting for the punch line, and happy to wait, to disarm the delivery by saying nothing.

"And you may ask why—I see you wondering, why the effort of building here, why not simply tame some other building, some safer, easier, more central spot. Why make things more difficult when we have more space than we could ever need?" Again he sounded like he was giving Q some sort of secret, some sort of gift in his words. Q raised an eyebrow, waiting again for him to go on.

"The answer is because it is a challenge. Because if I wish to own something, if I wish to tame it, I will start with the troublesome areas, the parts that will fight me, and from there, the simpler ones will follow."

Q felt a rush of warm pleasure. Flattery, was that what this was?

"And am I a troublesome part?" He prompted, just to be sure. Silva's hand slid back across his shoulder blades, making Q wince, and then he was turned to face the other man with a quick tug on his arm. Again, he was too close, intimately close. Disturbingly so.

"You being aligned against me is enough to make me nervous. I would much rather you work with me, but at the very least, it is for the best if you were to remain neutralized. Do you understand?" 

Q nodded once, more a tip of the head than actual agreement. Silva's moods were volatile, his transitions between congenial and threatening barely able to be spotted. It made his mouth go dry with the worry that a single wrong reaction could be the death of him.

"But you will work for me, I promise you. Not on the offensive, not at first. For now, just defense. I want to be sure that not even you could break in, once you've been locked out." 

"And if I refuse?" 

"You're a clever boy, Q, but you are not much more than that. I think you know what will happen if you refuse. I will convince you, using whatever means necessary." He had come in close now, and Q found himself backed against a wall again. Again, those warm, too gentle fingers came up, this time ghosting over Q's lips, which twitched under them. 

Part of him wanted to open his mouth, to draw those fingers in and attempt to take Silva off guard as well, but for all he knew, Silva might take that as an invitation, and that was one that Q was not willing to give out. The fingers came away, ghosted down the lines of his neck, and a palm settled over his heart, as though Silva expected to be able to feel a lie in the pulse there.

Q's throat bobbed and clicked when he swallowed, eyes flicking downwards and tongue coming out to wet his suddenly dry lips before he realized what that might look like, and his eyes returned to Silva's face, whites visible all the way around. Oh yes, he understands the game being played here... and he knows that he is going to be taken apart, slowly dismantled... if Silva can manage it, before MI6 finds them. If Silva had his way, Q would be built back up as Silva wants him, useful, loyal, and unable to return to England, unable to work out of the shadows ever again, It was a daunting notion.

If Q allowed it to happen. 

"I will take you back to your room now." He told him, turning away, removing all contact and pointing them back in the direction they'd come. 

When Q reached his quarters, he collapsed on the bed, uncaring of shoes, of wrinkles or the demands that tomorrow would bring.  
He simply let himself melt into the mattress, and fell asleep.

He stood for a bit, simply watching from the doorway. His bright young charge, so small and vulnerable looking, and so brilliant a mind. He wanted to own it, own him, wanted to possess all of it, and it was just as well that he take his time recovering his strength. The island was not Q proofed yet, the computers still just as vulnerable as his relaxed limbs, the rest of the buildings still full of any number of things that, in his hands, could become potential weapons. 

And yet anything he made would be a gift, something new and wonderful. 

Still, better not to have any of those gifts aimed at him. Particularly not so early in their relationship. 

He locked the door, comfortable with the knowledge that the room, at least, was well secured, and Q would not be coming out or materializing elsewhere through windows or vents or such trickery. 

MI6 had trained the both of them, and himself the more of the two. He could handle the physical side of this boy, would have no real trouble dominating him if needed. If wanted.  
His mind though, his quick fingers and subtle coding, he would have to be so careful of. He had a whole team of people to review and test anything that Q wrote for them, and even still he would be personally checking everything before he would let it go live. 

MI6 had not taught him that. They had not taught Q his skills. They had simply picked him up when he seemed useful. He had had to teach himself from books and practical learning under dire situations. It wasn't easy to die, after all, or to create for yourself a new name. To plan for years something that would take months to execute. Nothing was easy, nothing was simple, and had MI6 seen the promise of such studies, perhaps it could have been. For everyone. His last mission for M could have been done from afar. He wouldn't have had to be captured. Tortured. Broken. Freed.

But he was. And now, he could do the same for Q. 

With any luck, the charming, beautiful, brilliant boy could stay a bit more in one piece than he had, himself. It would all depend on how much he pushed him. 

 

Two.

"Your display on the old system is what betrayed you—like a letter combination lock, far too easy to read across. Bond was looking for it. Had it been just me, I would have written it off as far too simple an option, and I think therein lies the strength of it. Your very existence combines both old and new styles of espionage. Your locks should do the same. I was thinking, perhaps, of incorporating some form of traditional cipher, just that single additional step that most number crunching algorithms will not be expecting. Languages and numbers and words and gibberish they code in, but I have yet to see something that would work against this." Q was sitting on his bed, cross legged, speaking animatedly while jotting out potential codes for integrating into the security program. 

"You are being intentionally thick again, Mister Q." Silva said shortly, his words kept to a croon, but threatening just the same. 

Q stiffened. 

"I'm not sure what you expect, Mister Silva." Q bites back, his voice a poor mimic of Silva's accent. 

"I expect your cooperation. I had thought I'd made that clear enough. You are aware of my need to be caught, and how allowing yourself and dear James to puzzle through my encryptions served my purposes on that occasion. I am not asking you to unsolve it, but to make it more. Better. I want something that, were you to encounter it today, you would be stumped on. "

"Do you know how long such an encryption would take to make? Even if you were allowing me to write it myself, without your team of middle men… but like this? It could be years." 

"Then you had best become comfortable, hadn't you?" Silva said smoothly, rising from his seat in the plush chair Q had been given for his reading. 

Q's stomach lurched, and he fought the urge to shrink back when Silva began stalking slowly towards him.

"More importantly, though—why do you need to bother? People are after you, actively out to kill you right now as we speak, and you are worrying about your system security, years from now. If this were about proving you're smarter than someone—I'd say you've succeeded. I enabled you to hack MI6 through my oversight. I'm not so dull as to ignore or forget that. Who are you really trying to keep out?" He swallowed, as his vocalization helped him through his mental road block, and showed him an alternative he hadn't really wanted to acknowledge. "Or is it the opposite? You aren't keeping any one out, are you? You want me to design something to keep me in. You're making me build my own jail cell." 

Silva's face lit up, lips stretching in an easy smile, and it was terrifying. Off putting. Q wondered how any of Silva's men dealt with it. How his enemies stood up against it. Granted he had been around the man for a day now, but even so—it was beginning to wear on his nerves.

"There's the clever boy! I knew you'd understand eventually, I hadn't expected you to catch on so soon though. Yes, Q. Without you, they are defenseless against me. The cannot find me half so well as they would be able to with you at their side—even now, they search Barcelona, chasing a signal dropped via simple proxy, and you remain here while the dogs of the crown chase wild geese."

"So this was to be busy work? If you have the island already secured against me, then this is unnecessary. Did you hope to win my loyalty by wasting my time?" He was vexed now, annoyed, and he thought Silva should know it. 

"It was a distraction. I have a series of them designed for you, depending on what will keep you happiest. You are a valuable asset Q. I will give you anything, everything you wish for, all the things MI6, M, England… everything that they cannot. It isn't just about having you out of the way. If that were the case, you would never have reached here alive. It is about showing you what you have to gain. What we could achieve together." 

He'd reached the side of the bed now and he sat, his knee brushing against Q's shin. 

"I have no need to achieve anything with you. I am on the side of England, and England does not negotiate with terrorists." 

"Brave talk, for an idiot in the Q department." Silva had lowered his voice again, and leaned in, and Q clutched at the writing pad as though he felt it would shield him from whatever Silva had planned next for him. But Silva simply laid a palm on Q's inner thigh, his hand burning warm through the thin layer of fabric that made up Q's slacks.

"If you're trying to disarm me, I can assure you that I am just as physically useless and weaponless as when your men last checked me. It's unnecessary." Q's voice came out even, and he was proud of that fact.

"You speak and think in terms of necessity, and not in terms of want. I want to train that out of you, Q." There was no pretense here, no falsified interest, and the complete focus that Silva was devoting to him made Q feel damn near naked.  
"I want to make use of what you are capable of, physically. I think you'll find you like it."

Silva's hand had begun stroking up his leg, and his eyes stared into Q's, and he found himself at a loss for words. The blood had risen in his cheeks to the point of stinging. It was hot and prickling, like your eyes before tears, but there was no wetness… except that elsewhere, there was. The same flush feeling, the same stinging pressure… and a damp spot developing in the front of his unders. What was wrong with his body, that being absolutely terrified was doing this to him?

"Is this just what's next on your list of distractions for me?" He fired off, the filters between brain and mouth apparently shriveled to the point of nonexistence. He still clutched the notepad to him, and he shifted it now, using it to hide as much of himself behind as he could. He wanted to reach out, to push Silva away, to tell him to stop, but he found himself afraid that it would be admitting defeat. Folding to his bluff. 

Silva's stare never wavered, even as Q's brain began fluttering about, his pupils narrowing to pinpricks with panic, his flush deepening and heart racing. 

"No." Silva said finally, slowly, drawing out the syllable. "It's on a list of distractions for me." He gave him what was probably intended to be a comforting grin. 

It just made him all the more nervous, however. He'd played up his weakling status, yes, but he'd been hoping for underestimation, not fetishization. He floundered, finally shrinking back, trying to focus and find something else to throw out, to distract Silva from his advances. 

Silva, unfortunately, beat him to it. 

"You know, you haven't thanked me." He sounded smooth, detached, and he'd stilled his hand, holding lower on his leg, closer to his knee. It was heavy, but in an area close enough to being not… not as threatening. Still, it kept him from moving any further away, and he glared at it before snapping his eyes back up to Silva's face. 

"Thanked you?" He sputtered out, indignant. 

"For your promotion." He responded, and Q realized he'd stepped right into Silva's set up. "If not for me, who knows how many years before you were raised to the status of a full Quartermaster—and who you would be working under. But no, three members of the Q department were taken out in the blast, am I right? And so it was you, paired up with Bond, because you were the best they had left." 

Q bristled.  
"Four. And I would have been the best regardless. You know, you say that you recognize potential, but you are just as guilty of oversight as anyone else." His temper was snapping, and he had to make a conscious effort to shut himself up. Still, Silva's interest was piqued, and he raised a well groomed, obviously bleached brow. 

"You are arrogant, little Q. And it suits you. But I'll have that thank you, in one form or another. And who knows. Perhaps we might show you some other form of potential. After all… Bond did take out my Severine. Do you know, I have had her at my side for twelve long years? It's true. And you never truly appreciate the luxuries in life until they have gone." 

"You really ought to sort out what it is you see in me, Mister Silva." Q was regaining his footing now, coming to terms with this particular brand of intimidation. "Am I a distraction? A valuable asset? A challenge? A problem? A luxury? I guarantee, if you choose the wrong answer, you will underestimate me. You will lower your guard eventually, and you will find that you've made a terrible mistake." 

"Are you saying," he responded slowly, a genuinely joyful smile spreading across his face, "that you think it would be better if I killed you? Are you really so scared of the intimacies I offer that you would rather die?" 

Q snorted disdainfully. "Hardly scared, sir. Unenthused, perhaps one might go so far as to say I am disgusted, but not scared." 

Silva leaned back, drawing the hand off of Q's knee up to his chest and pressed it over his heart, his mouth puckering into an O as he let loose a playful oohing sound.  
"You wound me, Q. What did I tell you about rudeness?" 

Q stood and moved away from the bed, trying not to look away from Silva, though he was desperately running through his mental catalogue of the contents of his room. The type writer could be thrown at him, or perhaps bashed repeatedly against his head… it was hefty enough to perhaps inflict damage. He didn't know how to approach the attempt at escape, but if he could get to the computer lab before being caught…

Silva followed, standing and stalking towards Q again. Q felt like the cornered animal, and he changed directions, backing himself into the corner, heading for the floor lamp. First strike should break through the shade, perhaps shatter the bulb. All the better if it became sharp—the rest would then become a pole weapon. 

But Silva reached out, pushed him backwards by the shoulders, sending him sprawling into the chair that Silva had been seated in earlier. 

"You are a terribly ill behaved guest, Mister Q. Most bring wine, or a small gift, but you—you bring a sharp tongue and an unwillingness to cooperate. I would hate to see how family dinners at your house would have gone, had you not been left on your own so early in life." Q nearly flinched at that, but managed not to. This was more on the level of what he'd expected to have thrown at him, and it had long since ceased to hurt.

"And I would hate to have seen how your interrogations and missions went, back when you were working for the crown. I can only imagine the messes you would have left for other departments to clean up." Q straightened his glasses. 

"Messes?" Silva didn't sound angry. In fact, he sounded damnably amused.

"I would be happy to show you what sort of messes I leave behind. Since you aren't scared, only disgusted." His words were sneered and Q found himself pulled back out of the chair, onto the floor, and Silva had taken the single step forward, trapping him between the padded seat behind him and the man's thighs.  
"Let's see if we can't change your mind, yes?"  
His hands went to his fly, and Q pushed at his legs, trying to get him to back away. The position was uncomfortable, half crouch, half kneel, his ankle at an odd angle—not enough to cause damage, just awkward.

"Really? Of all the tricks in your arsenal, of everything you could do, threats of violence, killing those I love… you're going to fuck my mouth?" Q forced as much of his panic out of his voice as possible, and replaced it with contempt. 

"You don't flinch at the thought of violence, at verbal abuse… but touch, Q—Richard. You hate it, don't you?" Silva's hand had buried itself in the hair at the top of Q's head, and he found his hands grabbing at Silva's wrist, trying to stop the pulling, his scalp beginning to burn far less subtly than his cheeks had, and he could only be glad that what small shows of arousal he'd had were gone. 

"Not it, just you." He spat back, all bravado. 

"You know, you are so vulnerable." Silva spoke conversationally, his words falling lightly, even though his eyes were narrowed and murderously angry. He tugged at his handful of hair, tilting Q's head and putting his throat on display. "Your neck, so long and thin and delicate." His free hand came to rest on his shoulder, fingers stroking against the skin while he talked about it. "No muscle there is bigger around than your pinkie finger. Fourteen and a half pounds of pressure, and SNAP! It's done." He tapped his fingertips sharply against Q's neck, and Q swallowed involuntarily.

"But you won't." The words came out soft, breathy and broken, but confident. 

"Such a small thing." Silva mused. "So little, a few minutes. A bad taste in your mouth until you can rush to the restroom, rinse it out… and still you tempt me with your life, rather than submitting to it. What kind of a man are you, Richard, that death is the better option? A proud man? No! One with secrets, yes perhaps. One who has been hurt, or who has skewed standards, almost certainly. So what is it to be?" 

Q's heart was pounding, and he could feel the vein in his neck twitching with the power of his pulse. Suddenly it was too silent, and the blood roared in his ears. He felt cold, and too warm, and sick to his stomach, and the burning of his scalp had paled to a dull throb. He breathed in a deep breath through his nose, and slowly, wordlessly, eyes clamped shut and unwilling to look Silva in the face, unwilling to see the victorious smile he was sure would be there, he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, vulnerable. Supplemental. 

He sat like that for a moment, before opening one eye, trying to figure out why Silva wasn't moving, but he just saw a canted eyebrow, and flushed again, harder, the bile surging up momentarily before he struggled it back down. 

He took his hands slowly from the top of his head, relaxing a tiny bit as the pull ceased and he was given a little more room for maneuvering.  
He looked up, looking for a clue, and saw what he'd been loathe to, the smug smile playing about the edges of his lips while he stared down at him, dispassionate and detached. 

Q lowered his eyes and unzipped the fly of the slacks, fingers nimble from years of typing and coding suddenly bordering on useless as they shook and pawed inelegantly through the fabric of Silva's silk boxers, before finally freeing his erection and drawing it through the front of the pants. 

Silva's breathing had gone heavy, but he didn't look up, didn't try to see. He just leaned in, making a noise of protest at the back of his throat when Silva's hands moved to either side of his head, guiding him closer with fistfuls of hair. 

He took another deep breath, and then opened his mouth again, letting the scalding head and weight slip across his tongue. 

One of Silva's hands drew his glasses off of his face, and he heard them land on the cushion of the chair behind him. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to God for small favors, and began attempting to bob his head lower. Silva moved his hands, trying to guide him at a different rhythm, making it sloppy and awkward, until he relinquished control and let him do as he pleased. 

Just a few minutes. It would end before too long. It would be okay. He could get through this. The mantra stuck, was even slightly comforting. 

Until the head of Silva's cock hit the back of his mouth. His eyes watered and stung, and he panicked, trying to remind himself to breathe, to relax his throat and make it easier if at all possible. 

He slid deeper, until his nose was pressed against the cotton of Silva's high thread count shirt, the buttons on it digging into his cheekbone. He worried, distantly, that Silva would punish him later for having got tears on it, but it was so hard to focus on anything but the need to breathe, the choking, gagging stuttering noises that he knew were coming from him. 

He tugged his head backwards and free, and then bent, gasping and coughing as saliva poured out of his mouth and his forehead rested against Silva's thigh.  
"You're unpracticed at this, Richard. Am I your first? Or just your first in a while? Either way, I'm honored." Silva rumbled from above him, and he grimaced.

Then his head was lifted, guided back, and he tried to push away, tried to scratch at the skin beneath Silva's tidy slacks, squirmed and managed to end up with his cheek stretched obscenely while Silva's hips worked, thrusting sideways into his mouth. 

And then he slapped him again, obviously enjoying the feel of the impact, buffered by Q's face. Q turned his head to try and pull free, and Silva slid in further, choking him again. Q fell backwards, and Silva moved with him, until Q's head was resting on the chair seat and Silva was standing flush with his shoulders and thrusting down into him. 

He was sobbing now, his arms wrapped around and fingers clenching into the back of Silva's thighs.  
Silva pulled nearly out, letting him breathe, and then thrust in fully once more, going still before grinding down, not withdrawing. His hips circled once, then twitched, and he pulled back as he came, semen trailing first into Q's mouth and then across his face. He flinched and tried to breathe, and Silva let out a low chuckle. 

"There's the mess you were after, Richard. And now what do you fear?" He asked, before stepping back. Silva smirked, and pulled at Q's arm, saying nothing when he pulled it away, only over powering him easily and pulling up at the sleeve of his cardigan, and used it to wipe himself dry on, before tucking away and zipping up. 

He stroked a hand through his hair and then tugged at his shirt, straightening himself to presentability. 

"Goodnight, Mister Q." 

Silva turned smoothly and left, the heavy thud of the lock turning behind him. 

Q fell forward and uncurled his legs from where they had gone numb under his weight, and pressed his face into the thin carpet below him. He focused on breathing, on reciting in order all the passcodes he'd ever used, since his first computer. Slowly his heart rate calmed, and he was left, as Silva has predicted, with a bad taste, along with a sore throat, and stinging eyes. He climbed on wobbly legs and replaced his glasses before tottering to the bathroom and being sick. 

 

Three.

"How many shirts are you wearing, Mister Q? Are you not warm enough? His voice held what Q was quickly coming to consider Silva's signature blend of disbelief and amusement. 

Q flushed. 

"I'm fine, thank you." He snapped, carefully keeping the words civil, lest he be judged too ungrateful again. He ducked his head, just the same, unwilling to let Silva gloat over the slight color in his cheeks.  
It was true though. He'd dressed as he did at home, even though it was much warmer here. Nothing about this climate required an undershirt, over shirt, and jumper, but he was accustomed to the weight of his clothes. And what's more, it put his skin that much further from any potential touching Silva might be inspired to do, after last night. 

"No, no. We must see to your comfort. You will work better if comfortable, and you are my guest, after all." Silva flicked his fingers at one of his guards, and Q slammed his spoon down onto the table, hard enough to make one of the other armed men jump—maybe not the best idea, in retrospect. 

"That's funny." He said, his voice low and even, so that only Silva would hear. He'd rather not advertise… "Do you rape all of your guests? Is that part of making them comfortable?"

Silva laughed, one of his head tipping, nearly explosive things, none of that sly chuckle shit. Q fidgeted until he was done, feeling equal measures of humiliation and anger. 

"Rape! Really?" He wanted to tell Silva to keep his voice down, but he was shaking his head, wiping away feigned tears of mirth. "You had seemed so eager, though. Really—you knew I wouldn't kill you, you said so yourself. If you had not been so keen to get a hold of me, I'd have scared you a little, more idle threats, a swift squeeze of your windpipe, but you…. Tsk. Rape indeed." He leaned back, crossing his knees and looping his fingers around the higher leg. He studied Q's face, eyes flicking across it rapidly, before his mouth broke into a fond, easy smile. 

Q was suddenly glad for his layers, despite the relative warmth of the climate here. He was afraid that without them, Silva would be able to feel the cold radiating out from where his stomach had turned into a small frozen ball. 

He caught himself slipping into self loathing, blame, worry that Silva's men would now think he was fair game—no, that was what Silva wanted. Wanted to compromise him, slip under his guards and take him apart from the inside like some kind of emotional virus. 

With a little effort, he regained his poker face. 

"So you make a habit of choking your guests, then? I feel like that sort of thing should go on a sticker on the mirror as a warning." 

Silva stared, obviously knocked off guard, surprised, then gave Q one of his tamer chuckles and rose, clapping him on the shoulder. 

"Good show. Shall we?" He held a hand out to help Q out of his chair, and politely ignored when Q flinched before taking it. He gave him a quick smile though, squeezed his hand like it was a reward, and then let him go. 

"I would like you to begin theorizing that code for me today. Busy work or no, I want it." 

He said, and Stefan stepped forward, gesturing with the gun that Q should precede him back towards his room. 

"I will take a walk around midday. Would you like me to collect you before then?" 

Q paused in his retreat, considering. His back was tense enough that he felt like his muscles were shaking.  
"I—no. Thank you. But no." 

He could almost hear Silva shrug, though he was no longer facing him. 

"Suit yourself, Richard." He said, and Q all but fled the room, forgetting his dignity in favor of putting as much space as possible between himself and Silva's mocking voice.  
Midday came and went, and more. It must have been nearing two when Silva finally came, bearing a plate with lunch for them both piled on it. 

Q leaned back in his desk chair, feeling quietly smug and self satisfied.  
He accepted the sandwich he was offered, and even turned the chair to face the plush chair, where Silva had seated himself. 

"Tell me." He said, lifting his own sandwich while settling the plate on his knees. Q nodded. 

"In a polymorphic security algorithm, all you have to do is wait and observe in order to solve it. It's like a braid. There are two base strands, call them A and B. They contain the actual code. Strands A and B are solid. Flexible, but they always flow forwards. C and everything after it mutate while swirling around and through A and B, hoping to obscure them and make it more difficult for you to stop them. It changes either on a set time scale or after each interaction with a user or program. So if you observed for a few turns, you would be able to find the constant components, and just take care of those. And you're in." 

"You have simplified it overmuch, but your point is made. Not bad. So, how do you plan to fix it?"

"I plan to make for you an isomorphic polymorphic algorithm driven security cipher. Less of a lock, and more of an all out obscurification. It will be a learning program, that whenever you mess with it, everything adjusts, A and B do loops, so that it has misfires, doesn't necessarily do its job one turn, because it's too busy hiding. But you're fighting so many hydra heads you probably won't even notice. And, it's not an actual password lock down, it's like a cereal box cracker jack scramble on the contents of your hard disk." 

Silva was nodding, his eyes alight with understanding. 

"And you have begun writing this already, then?" 

Q tapped the small stack of papers at his side.  
"Like I said, the testing is going to be onerous, because without being able to see exactly what is misfiring, finding and correcting conflicting lines of coding is going to be… guess work at best." He shrugged and bit into his sandwich. "But that will hardly be my problem, will it?" He smiled sweetly. 

"Hardly." Silva agreed, his voice more of a rumble. Deep and rough and… amused? Aroused?

Q's head jerked up, and he felt his eyes widening behind his lenses, before he dropped his attention back to his sandwich and swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. 

Perhaps if he didn't say anything, Silva would let it pass, would leave him be. 

"You deserve a reward for your diligence and cooperation." He spoke, voice still graveled, and Q wanted nothing more than to shrink away into nonexistence.  
Instead, he squared his shoulders and leveled his chin. 

"My request?" He baited, and Silva paused, then nodded his head, acquiescing.  
"I'd like to be able to shave. I don't…" He waved his hand over his face and grimaced, hoping that this would disarm the situation, and Silva swallowed visibly, his eyes narrowing before he nodded thoughtfully. 

"Yes. Yes that can be arranged. A moment." He stood and left, and Q breathed a sigh of absolute relief, and he congratulated himself on his problem solving skills, basking in how much better his mind worked when he was active and challenged.

That relief was short lived, though, and faded when Silva returned, one hand bearing a straight razor, and the other a brush and pot. 

"Um." Q managed intelligently, and Silva took them into the bathroom, reappearing to lean against the door jam. 

"Well? Shave." He nodded back inside, as though challenging Q. 

"I don't—" the very tip of his tongue came to touch his lip, but again he rethought the movement. "I've never shaved that way before. I'm going to cut myself."

Silva rubbed a single finger under one side of his bottom lip, speaking as though grudgingly.  
"I suppose then I should do it for you. Come." 

Not seeing much of an alternative, and tensed beyond belief, Q moved as he was told. 

"Really, if you would just get me a modern razor, I'd be quite happy to wait—" 

"You mean a disposable." Silva said the word as though he hated it. "I won't abide by such wastefulness. The knife you sharpen again when it goes dull. Sit."  
He pointed at the toilet, its lid lowered to cover the bowl completely.  
Q swallowed and obeyed, afraid not to. Especially while Silva held a blade that he would—and this was the part he was still struggling to accept and rationalize—soon have pressed to Q's face and throat.

He swallowed. 

Silva didn't want to kill him. There were several reasons it wouldn't be happening right now. He started to list them in his head, when Silva ran the water over the brush, and began working the soap into a lather. 

Q's eyes went to the razor, on the other side of the sink. Too far for him to lunge and grab it without Silva catching him before he made it. He turned his attention back to Silva's hands. 

His ring and pinky fingers were held at a slight angle away from the dish, and when he sat it on the counter, the pinky of his other hand cushioned it, so that the noise wasn't loud and harsh.

He turned toward Q and wordlessly slid the blunt end of the brush under his chin, urging him to tilt his head back.  
Q followed the motion, blinking owlishly as his vision fought to slide beneath the rims of his glasses to better focus on Silva's face. 

Silva solved that by sliding his glasses off, setting them unfolded on the counter beside Q. 

He was just thinking this might not be so bad, when Silva straddled him, and rested his weight on Q's knees. 

"I—" Q started, but Silva pressed the lather laden brush to his lips. 

"Shh, I require concentration. Just relax." He gave him a wolfish grin, which did nothing at all to help him relax. He swallowed, and reminded himself to make an effort not to do that when the blade was in hand. He concentrated on Silva's face, not his eyes, of course, that was uncomfortable, but the broad planes of his cheekbones, and below—eyes catching on the thin, silvery pink lines of scars. He wondered what had caused that, what would make that sort of stretch mark… but he didn't ask.

Silva began laying the foam across his face, working small circles into his skin. He let his eyes slide closed, more comfortable with not being able to see what was going on than he was with Silva being so very close. 

He felt himself relaxing, almost against his will, as the brush went from ear to ear, and then started down his neck. He barely felt the fabric of his cardigan shift when Silva moved it, and everything seemed to be going better than expected, when suddenly there was no contact on his face at all, and Q opened his eyes without thinking, only to find himself facing Silva brandishing a blade and bringing it towards him. 

And he had to wonder what had gone wrong with his head, because here he was, just sitting, and going to let him. 

He squeezed his eyes closed, and Silva tsked and ran warm fingertips across the sides of his eyes. 

"Relax your muscles, or the razor will catch in the wrinkles." The usual glee was noticeably absent, and the seductive croon wasn't there either. Just a soft statement. And somehow that was actually calming. He let his features relax, and Silva carded his fingers through Q's hair. 

"Good boy." 

The words reminded him that those gentle fingers were the same ones that had pulled at his scalp the night before, that had gripped the sides of his head and slapped him and made him take it deeper—

A cold line touched his skin, and he stiffened again. 

"Shoosh now, don't move." There again was the genial inflection, like he was actively enjoying Q's discomfort, which, to be fair, he probably was. 

The knife shifted away and he could feel Silva's breath on the moisture on his face. It made him shiver. Silva wrapped his free hand around the back of Q's neck, squeezing ever so slightly, and holding him still. 

The blade came down again, and the sound of it dragging against his skin, along with the feel of the pulling of hair follicles, made him get goosebumps. But he didn't say anything. 

Silva, however, without a blade pressed to his face, had none of the related restraints. 

"When I was a child, on my grandmother's island, we would see the monks, rowing their boats to neighboring islands on the chain, and always they confused me. Holy men, who forswear everything, all luxuries, in order to be purer, closer to their God."  
Q was a little stricken at the apparent non sequitur nature of the story, but again, he could hardly interrupt. So he just listened, and took note, hoping that maybe Silva would let drop some information that would be useful either to his escape or to MI6, once he returned. He moved his head to look away from Silva, towards the tub, and he continued speaking while he shaved. 

"They give up everything extraneous, distance themselves from the petty worries of mortality and society, but do you know the one thing that even they cling to? The biggest luxury, the greatest anchor to this world, the root of all pettiness? Can you guess? They still have the company of others. Their order creates it, ensures it, even enforces it with shared space and meals. Humans, we need that. We desire closeness, desire a match, an equal." 

He fell silent for a bit, turning Q's face to look towards the sink so that he could continue his work. He shaved a few more stripes wordlessly, then returned to his story.

"I spent much of my young years on my grandmother's island. And now, on mine. But people, we are not islands. We need others. Not the men with guns, they count of course, but they are not… not a challenge, not stimulating. We need equals. This is why you work for MI6, is it not? And this is why I keep close to me those who come close to my level. Like Bond, like yourself. But Bond, he is an old dog. New tricks, you see, are for the young. And in teaching the young, you might inspire loyalty—ah ah ah!" 

Q had opened his mouth to speak, and Silva moved the blade sharply, pressing it to the corner of his lip. He drew it downwards, no pressure behind it, only the tiniest hairline of a slice appearing before he pulled it away. Q inhaled sharply, and Silva smiled and swiped one last time at his chin on that side. 

He took hold of Q's hair from behind, and pulled his head straight back, forcing Q to bare his neck and arch his spine. 

"Just like that." He murmured, and Q froze, muscles already displeased with the position. "Now is when you mustn't move." Silva reminded him, and then the knife was on his neck. Silva settled his free hand on Q's chest, right over his heart, and he wanted to swallow, to shiver, to flinch away, but he knew he couldn't.

He worried, with the how quickly his heart was racing, that the jumping pulse point in his neck would end up getting sliced, because there was nothing he could do to still it. He took deep, calming breaths in through his nose, inhale for five, hold for five, release for five—tricks for getting through pain, or forcing yourself to sleep. 

Silva made quick work of it, though, obviously nowhere near as interested in prolonging this part as he had been with his face.

"There." He said, sounding pleased with himself, and he sat down the blade on the sink, lifting the towel from its place on his knee and using it to pat dry Q's neck and jaw line.  
"Like a child." He said fondly. 

Q opened his eyes just in time to see Silva's face ducking in, and then his lips were sliding over Q's own, and Silva's tongue was probing at the slice he'd given him, before pressing its way into Q's mouth, bringing with it the metallic taste of his blood. He shuddered, and Silva broke the kiss and stood. 

"Dinner is at eight." He said, and checked his watch. "I would suggest you dress down—I've had them heat the room so you won't have to wear so many layers. Your comfort, after all." He straightened his shirt sleeves, nodded, gathered up blade, towel, soap dish, and brush, and turned to leave. 

Remembering his manners, Q spoke up.  
"Thank you." 

Silva turned his head to flash him a smile, and locked the door of the apartment behind him.

True to his word, when Stefan escorted Q into the dining area, it was almost sweltering. Q had left his layers in place, but found himself plucking at his neckline halfway through the salad course. Silva rolled his eyes. 

"Mister Q, please—just take it off. I can have it brought back to your room—no one is going to take your clothing from you." He spoke to him as though Q was a very naughty boy who needed to be told to stop coloring on the walls, but the look on his face said that he hadn't considered keeping Q's clothing from him until just now, and he might change his mind about not doing it later. 

Q was not at all used to feeling so constantly like he was being sized up for consumption. He understood now why women who were not agents often went to work armed with mace or knives. 

Still, this heat was completely unnecessary. Silva himself had stripped down to an dark brown undershirt, his cream colored slacks, a belt, and bracers. And he had to admit that at least he looked comfortable. 

And the cardigan was beginning to itch. 

Reluctantly, he undid the buttons and slid it off, then unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them up over his elbows.  
He'd be damned if he stripped down any further of his own free will while eating with the man who was holding him hostage, and whose penis had been halfway down his throat the night before. 

He reclaimed his fork, and looked up to find Silva staring at his hand.  
He checked quickly, half expecting to find some bleeding or some new, unnoticed scarring, or perhaps an indigenous insect, but there was nothing. 

"Is there a problem, Mister Silva?" He asked archly, eyebrow raised in spite of himself, though he had a good idea what was to follow. It usually did, when people saw him without his layers.

"I hadn't realized—I thought you just seemed small while tied to the chair, because of your vulnerability. I knew you were thin but…" He trailed off, still staring hard enough to make Q feel uncomfortable. He got the impression that he wouldn't have to work very hard to seem less than intimidating now. "And please," Silva said, snapping back to himself, "You know my name. Call me by it." 

"Mister Rodriguez, then. My weight is perfectly healthy, I assure you. I fall just within the light side of normal for my frame, and as you have doubtless observed, I do eat." 

Silva nodded and took the statement for the cue that it was, going back to his salad. 

"So you have made progress?" 

Q deposited his forkful of greens into his mouth, annoyed by the sting as the vinaigrette met the slit in his lip.

"A bit. I finished what should serve as the first draft of the first portion of the coding. I have the papers upstairs, as well as a description of what I expect the results to be." He paused to sip at his wine, a little more trusting tonight, though he told himself he really had no reason to be. 

"That's good!" Silv-- Rodriguez said, and Q corrected how he was thinking of the man. After all, it would be rude to misaddress him. 

"As for the testing, would it be possible for me to observe? I'm going to need to see what, if anything, goes wrong in order to fix it on the next draft." 

As the next dish was brought in, some sort of fish and potato and egg that looked unappealing and smelled even worse.

"I will think on it." Rodriguez promised, dishing a plate for Q before dishing his own. "This is bacalhau a bras, a Portuguese dish… my grandmother's recipe."  
He passed Q his plate, and Q studied the mess. 

"It looks like some of the casseroles I had growing up." He offered. That was sociable, without revealing too much, and couldn't possibly offend anyone, despite how unenthused he was about the dish. Inoffensive was good. It just might be hard to keep up once this was actually in his mouth. Then again, he'd had worse there over the last couple of days.

Rodriguez's words from earlier were weighing on his mind, about how much people needed other people. 

It was true, he supposed. And it made some of the man's actions make a little more sense. Not that he would ever acknowledge the tiny seed of sympathy he felt for a man who was isolated and lonely because of his intellect.  
He'd rather face the food. 

But to start, he just ate at the rice that was served beside it, until he found Rodriguez staring at him with an almost hurt look on his face. 

He heaved an internal sigh and piled his fork up with the slop, then put it quickly in his mouth. 

It was… unexpected. Salty, though the potatoes helped. The eggs lent it an odd texture, but the flavor—it was obviously fish. Strongly so. But good. There was a sting, sharp and citrus like, and he let out a surprised noise when he swallowed. 

"This is… rather good, actually." He told Rodriguez, who nodded as though to say 'I told you so.' Though he hadn't. 

Something occurred to him then, and he paused with his laden fork hovering before his mouth. 

"Did you cook this?" 

His face broke into a smile.  
"Of course! You think I would trust a family recipe to someone else? No. I am glad you like it, have more if you want."

Q nodded, taking his time with it, really enjoying the flavor. He was no food snob—hard to be with as little time as he dedicated to eating—but this was good. And besides, the last dinner he'd eaten here, he'd consumed like a barbarian. 

"If I have them enter your code, and bring you down to observe just the testing, will you be satisfied?" He asked slowly. Q nodded. 

"It should suffice, yes."

"And you want to work on this after dinner? Or wait until tomorrow?" 

Q thought while he chewed.  
"I was hoping, perhaps after dinner, do you think we could go for a walk? Earlier I was eager to work on it, but now that I'm done for the moment… Outside sounds very nice, actually." He spoke carefully, trying to gauge Rodriguez's reaction.

He pursed his lips, and then nodded an affirmative.  
"If you like." He said, and Q gave him a smile. Restrained, but there just the same.  
He helped himself to more of Rodriguez's cooking.

After they both were through, Rodriguez refreshed their glasses, and then stood, gesturing that Q come with him.  
Stefan began to follow, but Q noted that he was waved off.

Probably because his captor now had an even better idea of how little weight he had to throw around. 

Well. If it was a continued trend, it would perhaps give him a better opportunity to escape. He could hide in one of the buildings perhaps… scavenge for electronics that still worked, build some form of rude transmitter…  
Though if they were scrambling the signal, it would never even register on MI6's radars. 

His heart sank, and he hastened to remind himself that he would of course be missed. His clearance was high enough that people would be sent after him. It had only been just under a week. There was still time. 

Outside of the building, Q drew up abruptly. There was a porcupine in his path, and with the narrow construction of space between the houses, there was no where to go. He held still, remembering a time when the family dog had tangled with a porcupine and come back with quills in his poor nose. Q had no urge to repeat Scruff's mistake. 

Rodriguez didn't even stop to think though. He handed his wine glass to Q and stooped down, his hand outstretched. 

He spoke under his voice to it, and the quills waved. Q had a moment's sharp satisfaction at the mental image of Silva's face speared through with quills while he made a run for it, but the quills never fired and no yelp of pain ever came. 

He just moved closer slowly, finally touched the animal, and gently scooted it aside. 

Once the path was clear, he retrieved his glass and gestured that Q should pass him. 

"How did you do that?" He asked, and Rodriguez shook his head. 

"On my grandmother's island, I found—" 

"Why do all of your stories start out on that island?" Q interrupted, suddenly more interested in that than a practical guide to animal charming.

"I was there after my parents died. I lived with her from the time I was seven until I was fourteen. I learned all about life on that island, had all my important firsts there. It was a sanctuary, just off the mainland of Portugal, away from the people who would level pity filled gazes at us." Silva shrugged, and Q's brows knotted tighter together.

"Us? And why tell me this? Why tell me about you? Why not just give me an impartial lesson?" He had to know Q was gathering information on him, right? How could he not?

"Because you listen better when you feel it is something you can bring home to mommy. Something you can use against me. For example-- I had a sister. She's dead." He sounded so cheerful about it that it was absolutely disconcerting. 

"Oh. Right, then." Q managed. "Carry on."

"So. On the island, I learned about wild animals. The ones with teeth. The ones with barbs. How, when approaching them, you don't sneak up on it. You woo it. Speak to it. Lull it into relaxing with you. Put out your hand. Stroke him. Feed him. You learn, or you host barbs in uncomfortable places. I learned how to befriend even the dangerous ones. How to gentle them. How to make them mine."

"You know that I won't ever be yours, Rodriguez. I belong to England." Q was getting better at seeing the hidden meaning in his words, and this one made him shiver.

"Richard," Rodriguez returned seriously. "You already are."

He didn't have a response to that.

They walked around the courtyard, and he circled the head of the fallen statue, eyes sliding dispassionately over the eyeloop that had been punched into the marble, by which he understood Severine had been trussed into standing at her execution. 

He worked at MI6, he had theoretically been at least partially responsible for several deaths, had even listened on speaker as they happened. But he'd never had to witness the aftermath, until Silva had become a name that was whispered around the premises.  
And here, faced with the old blood from Bond's visit to the island, he couldn't bring himself to feel bad for the girl who had died. Because if he started with her, he would have to feel it for all of them. And he couldn't spare the time now for the break down that would necessarily follow.

"It was quick." Rodriguez's voice made him jump a little. He settled, surprised to discover how close the man had gotten without his noticing. 

"I didn't know her." He pointed out, feeling like a fool for saying it even as the words left his mouth. He clutched at his wine glass, glad to have something to occupy his hands, which were prone to twitching when he got nervy.

"But you are human. Empathy is a building block of humanity. It is nothing of which to be ashamed." 

He nodded, but was sharply aware of the shame that did spread in his chest, because he wasn't thinking about the girl who had died there, but instead wondering about how long it would be before he found himself in similar circumstances. 

She'd lasted for years, because she had been alluring, useful as a weapon… and good for Rodriguez, as well. A companion. A lover.

Q wanted to still be alive when MI6 finally got here. 

He had no doubt that similar services to those that Severine had given would be asked of him. He had learned in school that everything became easier if you offered before they could take. You could purchase friendships, protectors… ease of mind. 

And he desperately wanted that. 

It was true, what Rodriguez had said earlier, about people needing others, and what he said now, about humanity and empathy. 

"Would you like to come back to my room with me?" He asked, the words tumbling forth unchecked and awkwardly. Rodriguez's eyebrows rose in surprise. 

"Will you accuse me of rape again in the morning?" He asked with a grin, but there was a real seriousness in his eyes, a quiet sort of sadness. Q shook his head no.  
"Then yes." 

The trip back to his quarters was unlike any such trip ever made before, les touching—none, in fact. No slovenly or drunken displays of public affection. No witty chatter. They just strolled in, Rodriguez just as calm as ever, and Q appearing the same, though he could feel his heightened heart rate and roiling stomach. 

It was a good decision. He knew that. But it was awkward, and terrifying to some extent. This was outside the realm of his experience. He was busy thinking about the technical aspects of it when he walked past his bedroom door. He didn't even notice until he realized Rodriguez wasn't walking with him any longer.

He looked back and felt himself bristling and blushing at the sight of Rodriguez leaning against the doorframe, giving him an amused look that was also at least a partial smolder. 

"I'm rather certain you have neither lube or condoms in my room." He bit out, arching his brow to make it sound like more of a challenge. Rodriguez pushed off of the door frame with his shoulder, looking gratifyingly undecided, before he put his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

"My room is the other way." He gestured, and Q came back, walking beside him through the fork in the hall, and pausing before the most obviously remodeled room in the building. His brows rose in his face and he pushed his glasses back up his nose, but didn't otherwise comment. 

There were double doors, solid wood and intricately designed… just as flamboyant as the man to whom they belonged. Beyond that was a soft off-white carpet, thick and wonderful, with a Spanish tile lined fireplace and a dark brown leather sofa. Bookshelves lined the walls, which had been smoothed of texture and painted a darkish orange. 

The sight of a gun locker, the keys dangling from the upper cabinet, set Q's mind reeling. 

If he could keep Rodriguez distracted, maybe he would forget about the security failings that his room offered. Maybe there was something here that Q would be able to use to call for help, or to escape. Starting with the contents of that locker.

Through a doorway, he could see a desk and, against the far wall, a bed-- plush but surprisingly plain and utilitarian. 

On the desk was a laptop. He felt as though his heart was thundering in his chest. 

As though Rodriguez had seen him staring, he caught him beginning to turn to see what had so enraptured Q.  
Q moved forward, making Rodriguez stiffen and become defensive, but at least drawing his attention back to him.  
"Can we… I don't think I'm ready for the bed yet." He made his voice low and soft—let some of his earlier fear dictate the tone of it. He cleared his throat. "I haven't. Um. Before." 

Let Rodriguez extrapolate the extent to which that statement was true. 

It did its job, though, made him focus wholly, or at least, apparently wholly, on Q. 

"Well, there is a first time for everything." He said, and smiled like he'd amused himself, or told some sort of funny secret. "Come here." 

He managed not to cast a longing look at the computer in the other room, and approached carefully, waiting as Rodriguez settled back onto the couch.  
He patted his lap, and Q came closer, already blushing, when Rodriguez suddenly raised his hand. 

"Take your shirt off for me, Richard." 

He froze. 

"Am I to call you Tiago, then?" He asked, setting his wine glass down on the table beside the couch. 

"I'd like that, yes. If you would."  
He was just watching, his glass resting on his thigh, not yet moving, not reaching. Not yet.  
Q pulled at the buttons on his shirt and slid it off, leaving the sleeves rolled up as he draped it over the arm of the couch.  
He hesitated again, then pulled up at the hem of his undershirt, flushing at the intake of breath that came from the seated man as he did, and then he deposited it atop his other shirt. 

Rodriguez drained the last of his wine and set the glass beside Q's. He lifted his arms then, reaching out, not to touch, but to invite him in, and Q found himself straddling the lap of a known terrorist, his bum resting on his thighs and their chests no more than a dozen centimeters apart. 

Tiago ran his hands down the front of him, fingers wrapping around his sides and his thumbs nearly meeting in the middle, stroking up and down his torso, barely brushing up to his nipples and then down to the dips of his hips. 

He looked down, watching the progress of his hands, detached. Honestly a little afraid. His muscles had tensed, and he was shaking as if he were cold. Tiago seemed to like it, though, or at least found it charming. 

"I am going to kiss you now, Richard." He said, and then he felt the hands near his waist pulling him forward, until their chests brushed and their lips met.  
It was surprisingly chaste, almost sweet, and Q felt slightly aghast at the idea that when he'd slept with a virgin, he hadn't been as slow and careful as Tiago was being with him. 

Then again, he also hadn't kidnapped her and threatened her life, so maybe it was a little bit of a trade off. Besides, they had been in the moment. 

He wrapped his hands around the bulk of Tiago's shoulders, and Tiago shifted so that one arm went under his and up to the back of his neck, pressing him closer so that he could lick into and devour his mouth. The other hand came between them, to rest heavily on his chin and direct him to turn his face a bit, or angle his head just so. 

He couldn't tell whether control was just Tiago's style, or if he truly thought he was a completely inexperienced lab rat. 

But even the level of control he exerted didn't stop Q's tongue dancing across something overly smooth, warm and more… solid, somehow. He made a muffled noise of surprise, but quickly stopped it, lest he seem rude, turning it into a moan when Rodriguez began sucking at his tongue as though it were some far more intimate part of him.

"You are so delicate, Richard." He murmured, and Q had to make a real effort not to scoff.  
"Thin, frail… delicate. I do not know whether to break you or protect you, and I am stricken with the urge to do both simultaneously. You drive me mad." He was husky, needy, and though part of Q was terrified, part of him was also craving this, demanding it. 

He liked how easy it would be to blow his underestimation of him out of the water. 

He rocked forward, tilting his pelvis and dragging his partial erection against the matching one in Tiago's pants.

He found his head being pulled forward so that his forehead rested against Tiago's, and he could watch him looking down at where they were pressing together now. 

He arched his back and undulated on top of him, his hips circling and making damn near a dance of it. 

He'd gone with his friends to a club when he'd turned legal, and they'd bought for him a lap dance. It hadn't gone exactly like this, but it was as good an inspiration to draw from as any. 

"Can you feel what you are doing to me?" Tiago all but whispered, his words rumbling in his chest and fingers squeezing into Q's hip. "Keep going. Like that."

He did as he was told, reacting only favorably when the hand that had been on his hip slid down to his ass, and squeezed, then moved across to his other cheek, pulling him in closer before it moved up to stroke over the soft skin above the waistband of his pants. He let his eyes drift closed, again discomforted by how close his face was to Tiago's, though now that was actually the point.

He used his grip on Tiago's shoulders to balance himself, and moved in closer, until he was all but sitting on his dick.  
Tiago's response was to dip his hand into the back of Q's pants and trace the line of his crack down. He shuddered, but circled his hips again. He tried not to flinch when his fingers traced his hole, but the way his grip tightened on his shoulders must have been a dead give away. 

Tiago brought his hand up to Q's mouth, which was already slack and panting, and traced along his lower lip. Q's eyes slid into focus and snapped to Tiago's face. Q moaned as three of Tiago's fingers slipped over his teeth, the middle one pressing down on his tongue, and making his mouth water. His fingers tasted like the wine they'd been drinking. 

"I trust you have researched this, you know what to expect." He crooned directly into Q's ear. "I will be gentle with you for as long as you will let me. But before we are done, you will beg for completion." 

A sound embarrassingly like a whimper tumbled forth from him, and he closed his mouth as best as he could around the fingers in it, suckling at them and laving them with his tongue. 

It was like the other night, but different because it was on his own terms. He had some say in it. It wasn't much, but it made enough of a difference that when his groin started aching from it, he didn't feel as disgusted with himself. 

Any number of agents had done similar things for any number of reasons. No one would think ill of him for this. And no one would hold it against him for making the best of it. 

That in mind, he released the fingers with a wet pop and gave Tiago a crooked, somewhat challenging grin. 

"I've already asked you nicely. Begging is, I suppose," he paused to suck in air, trying to control his breathy gasps. "The next logical step."

"Provided your pride doesn't get in the way." Rodriguez agreed, and Q felt the dampened fingers sliding back down the back of his pants. He arched forward, mouth dropping open again and all pretense at not panting disappearing.

Tiago kissed him, sucking his lower lip into his mouth, while the spit slicked fingers danced over his hole. He didn't push in, just rubbed, teased, massaged… and Q arched and humped into his lap, his mind detaching slightly. He turned his gaze to the bedroom, staring at the desk from over Rodriguez's shoulder. When he shifted from his mouth to Q's jaw, he rolled his head on his neck, feeling like he might be overdoing the wanton bit, but not really caring. 

He lay his head on Tiago's shoulder, the motion making him hunch down in his lap and pushing his ass back and into the finger teasing against him. He ran his tongue across the skin of Tiago's neck, tasting salt and feeling the short hairs against his tongue. But his attention was on the gun locker, and so he was surprised when Tiago took the change of position as an invitation, and dipped his finger in, pressing into Q the little bit that the angle would allow. 

Suddenly he stopped, and Q whined despite himself as Tiago withdrew. His heart pounded and a million variations of worrying that he'd been caught slid into his mind, but Tiago simply rolled them over, so that Q was under him, pressed against the couch with a terrorist between his legs. He kissed him again, and then sat up and began unbuttoning Q's pants. 

He caught his wrists without thinking, and Rodriguez immediately stilled his hands, an eyebrow cocked. 

"Having second thoughts?" He baited, the tone implying that he found amusement in Q's apparent loss of nerve. 

"Yes, actually. I think I'm ready for the bed now." He forced his voice not to waver, and felt smug when Tiago choked on a chuckle. 

"Oh? And here I thought we'd just gotten comfortable. Well… as you like." He stood, the motion nearly fluid, and Q couldn't keep himself from smirking when he saw Rodriguez shifting how he was situated in his pants. 

He led the way into the bedroom, toeing off his shoes at the door way, and Q was glad of it, because when he followed, he found he was having his own troubles with walking. He doffed his shoes and his socks as well, and stopped Tiago short of climbing onto the bed by wrapping his arms around him from behind and pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder. 

He let his fingers skirt down the front of his chest, and when he reached the top band of his pants, he traced it to where the braces snapped on, then followed them back up, sliding them off his shoulders. 

Rodriguez slipped his arms out and then lifted them to facilitate Q pulling his shirt up over his head. He finished pulling it off, and caught him up again, his kiss slightly more desperate, hungrier.

Q's hands were caught between them, pressed between their chests, and he used that to push them apart.  
Tiago stumbled, obviously surprised by the strength hiding in Q's wiry muscles. 

Yes, he was a lab rat, yes he was thin as a reed, but he had to put in the same PT hours as everyone else. And it was almost comical how calculating Tiago looked, based just on that single shove. 

Q watched as his eyes darted first to computer and then to the gun cabinet, and mentally chastised himself for having reminded the man that he could be a threat. He might not be able to over power him, but he was no Severine. And even she, based on what he'd read from M's notes on Bond's briefing, had been allowed arms. 

It seemed that Silva enjoyed playing with fire. And he could work with that. 

He moved then, using the moment of surprise that was still hovering around Tiago to push him to the bed. He all but tripped on the man's long legs, landing atop him. 

He gave him a sharp smile, full of promise, and slid down, undoing Tiago's pants and pulling his legs free of them almost gracefully. Almost. 

"Why, Richard? Why your change of heart?" He seemed legitimately curious, and Q almost groaned. Must they discuss this now? Sex being one of the few times he normally turned off his impressive brain, he felt on rocky ground attempting to navigate the bedroom with his intellect intact.  
He thought of how Silva would answer, thought back to the monks, to the tales of the island. 

"When I was young, I was often knocked to the ground, robbed of my work papers, and generally left to figure out what to tell the teachers. If you handed in the bullies, new ones would pop up, maybe worse, maybe not. But no one would respect you, and no one would associate with you. But, if you were to offer, if you gave the people stronger than you what they intended to take anyway, they responded with gratitude. There were no physical repercussions, and those around you looked up to you, feared you… you could befriend them, join their ranks, and maybe in time come to direct their attentions. You are not a grammar school bully, and the stakes are far higher. But MI6 never trained us on what to do if the enemy was right." 

The words damn near burned, but it was a good thing to say. He knew it, could tell by the way Tiago's shoulders relaxed. He hadn't known they were tense, but… good. This was going well, at least. And besides, the best of lies started with truth.

He stepped in closer again. 

"Now, if you don't mind, I had some work I'd like to get back to." He aimed for sultry, and wasn't sure quite how well he succeeded, but he slid his own pants off anyway, feeling a bit shy with how impressed Tiago had been with his thinness. A fat free torso was one thing. No one liked chicken legs. 

Tiago backed himself up until he lay against the pillows, and stretched an arm out, inviting Q in again.  
"By all means. Show me your work." 

Q crawled up over him, stopping to pepper chaste little kisses up over the broadness of Tiago's chest. He was used to his partners being broader than him—most women had ribcages bigger around than his, but he wasn't used to this sort of power, tucked beneath the skin he touched. He wasn't used to barrel chests and hard angular slopes instead of curves. He was, somehow, not actually as disgusted by it as he'd expected, though. The true test of that was yet to come, he knew, but for now he climbed upwards, finally looking up close at Tiago's face, and actually deciding to make a study of it. He had hard lines around his eyes, but they were from smiling too much, laughing too often. He ran gentle fingers over those lines, and then over Tiago's smiling lips. 

"Are you attempting to decrypt me?" He teased, lips moving under Q's hand. 

"Heavens no. Last time I tried, you escaped." It was his turn to have gone throaty, and with as youthful and high as his voice normally sounded, he thought it likely that it just made it seem like he had a cold. 

"I can promise you that I am not going anywhere." He informed him only half seriously, and Q hummed, though his thoughts turned again to trying to figure out how best to make it so that he could. 

Warm hands, too large to ever be mistaken for a woman's, pulled him up by the shoulders and held him in place so that their chests touched, and the majority of his weight was resting across Tiago's front. 

He kissed him again, and Q began thinking of poisoned lip balms, with as often as his lips had ended up inside of Silva's mouth. With as often as the double-ohs ended up reporting the amount of sleeping with the enemy they had to do, it would be a good investment of both time and resources. And how strange, that here in bed with him, he even thought of the man as Tiago, but the moment his mind moved to matters involving his death, he was back to being labeled as Silva. It made some sense, he supposed. Tiago was the more sympathetic of the two characters, and Silva the one responsible for the death of eight of Q's coworkers.

But while he'd been musing, Tiago had reached out and taken hold of a tube of lube, as well as coated his fingers with it. Q didn't even notice until the cold slick firmness began probing again at his anus, this time through the leg hole of his unders. 

"You do know just what to say—mm." He was working not to tense, but this angle allowed Tiago's fingers a much better access, and he had already gotten past his first knuckle into him. Q squirmed, trying to get the muscles to loosen up a little. Tiago took that as permission and pressed in further. Q found himself rocking forward, almost trying to crawl away from it, but Tiago kept with him. There wasn't really anywhere to go. 

Sweat beaded on his forehead in a fine misty sheen, and he couldn't help but to shake a bit again. Out came the finger, and for a moment he thought Tiago had changed his mind, but no. He pushed back in, the burn and sting and stretched feeling beginning to feel somehow less. His muscles fought back, tried to reject the finger, but that wasn't exactly the effect they actually had. 

"Feel how you pull at me from inside." Tiago sounded nearly reverent with awe, and Q's cock was responding. To his inflection, to the rumble from his chest… not to the finger up his arse. Probably. 

He rocked his pelvis, trying to use Tiago's finger to loosen himself, make the discomfort fade faster.  
"It's because I want more. Tiago, please…" He could feel the dick under him hardening. Was it his name? Or the writhing, the tiny amount of friction that Q had managed between them?

He resolved to find out. 

Tiago removed his hand, and Q scrambled to kneel, pulling at his underwear and hoisting them down his hips before kicking them off somewhere around the foot of the bed. 

He hastened to stretch himself back out over Rodriguez's lap, watching from up close as lube was applied to more fingers. 

He sat the tube on the bed beside them, and Q shivered, well aware of what its presence meant. They still had a long way to go before this would be over… he wasn't sure how he felt about it, though, really.  
The finger returned, this time with another in tow, and he cut off the vowel sounds trying to come out of him by biting down onto Tiago's shoulder. It wasn't a hard bite, and the forwards push of the hand in his rear made him let go fairly quickly, but it wrenched an appreciative moan from Tiago, which made Q feel smug all over again. 

"You think yourself so very clever, don't you?" Tiago bit out, teasing. 

"Oh, but I am." He responded, sentence falling short as Tiago pressed in deep and scissored, brushing over something—prostate, his knowledge of anatomy told him helpfully—and he all but swallowed his words, turning them into a groan. 

"I am going to put another in you, and then I am going to fuck you. I want to hear that begging you promised me soon." 

There was a certain dark promise there, and it made a hot flush fall over him. He was sure his blushing traveled down his shoulders now, and he knew his chest and cheeks would be tinted with it. 

"You may have to co- coax it out of me." He stuttered when the third finger began prodding at him. "I don't beg easily." 

"Oh, I know!" Tiago informed him jovially. "My men tried many tricks to get you to talk, or beg, to do or say anything, while you were drugged… but you have good training." 

He shuddered at the thought of what might have been done to him while he was out. 

And suddenly the hand not currently stretching him out was brushing over his face, removing his glasses and setting them next to the lube. Smoothing his hair away and keeping the sweat from dripping. 

Tiago was studying him closely, was brushing soft touches across his cheekbones, down his neck.  
"Relax, Richard. So tense… you make it easy for no one. The pain is greater, if you can't relax."

"You have fingers. Up my bum." He pointed out, amazed not to sound angry or vulnerable, but on a somewhat even keel. Breathy, sure, but all things considered he was doing rather well. 

"Shh, shh. Here. Lie on your back." He removed the offending digits and tugged Q upright by his arm.  
Tiago himself slid off the bed, carefully moving Q's specs to the bedside table. 

He pulled a foil square from the bedside drawer, and Q watched from his place on his back, idly stroking himself to try and help waylay the fluttering he felt in his stomach. Not that he would ever admit to it—this was not his first time having sex, he was not some fairytale girl, and furthermore, he knew plenty of men who engaged in this sort of sex with great enthusiasm and gusto. Thus, he really had nothing to worry about. 

Because after all, Silva wanted him to work for him. For Q, it boiled down to outlasting Silva's luck. And, if at all possible, not outlasting him in bed. He had every intent of getting as much out of the situation as he could

"I wonder if you've been told how beautiful you are, long lines and pale skin like this. Almost fragile. Breakable." It was complimentary, but somehow threatening, too.

"Can't say I have." He spoke archly, but his heart was pounding.

Tiago simply smiled and moved to his knees, moving Q's legs further open so that he could fit between them. He leaned in, his prick pressing into the crack of Q's arse. But he distracted Q's attention from that by tipping to the side, balancing his weight on an arm beside Q's shoulder on the bed. 

His hand joined Q's, wrapping his larger, blunter fingers around Q's thin spidery ones. He began leading the strokes, squeezing just a bit and tugging more rhythmically than Q had been doing. 

Q took a deep breath and looked up again and into Tiago's face. 

"You are going to enjoy this, despite the pain. I promise you that." 

Then Tiago's hand was gone. He kept the pace that he'd established for a stroke or two while Tiago aligned himself, but his hand stuttered and stopped when he began pushing in. 

Tiago snapped the lid off the lube and poured it over where their flesh met, and it did ease the way a little, but it still hurt, like the burn of that first finger but much more, hot and stinging, the stretch something he thought he might never become used to. 

He began pulling roughly at himself, trying to override the pain with distracting pleasure, but with the way his heart was pounding, all he was managing was hollow friction. 

Tears sprung to his eyes, and he turned his head to the side, breaking away from Tiago's stare. He brought the hand not currently invested in his wanking up to his mouth and sunk his teeth into it. If pleasure wasn't doing anything, he could at least introduce an alternative point of pain—something that MI6 insisted could be helpful. 

Tiago stopped moving though, completely seated inside of him, and he gasped out a half sob, before panting. 

"I am going to take you apart, unravel you from the inside." The gravel of his voice, his accent becoming much more pronounced now, made him buck his hips into his hand, and he turned his head back to meet Tiago's eyes. 

"Please." He said, the word tumbling off of his tongue with alarming ease. 

He began moving. 

It felt strange. Uncomfortable... not as painful as it had been, though. Not as bad as it could be. He canted his hips between thrusts, and then let out a stuttering gasp when Tiago dragged against his prostate again, the feeling so much more than when it had been just fingers. 

"That's it." He was cajoling him, coaxing him, almost daring him to like it. 

And he didn't back down from a dare like that. 

He pressed down, shifting and angling his hips to dictate where and how the thrusts fell, and just to show how very unafraid of this he was, he wound one leg up, over, and behind Tiago, using it to urge him forward. 

"Ah ah ah." He chided. "Remember? If you want me to stop being gentle, you have to beg." 

"Please." It came just as easily as before, but he couldn't press on, because despite speaking, Tiago hadn't paused his slow slide in and out. 

"Oh, Richard, I believe you can do better than that."

His leg muscles had gone rubbery and were shaking, and he had a knot in his throat.

"Please, Tiago, please, I need—" He choked, bucking his hips furiously, looking for the additional friction or pressure, or whatever force it was his body was after.  
He sped his hand on his cock again, and found his wrist caught and stilled by Tiago's grip. 

He cried out, a wordless, guttural sound of outrage and arousal. 

"Please, please… Tiago, please. Fuck me." He wondered distantly how he had become so much an animal, so quickly. 

"Good boy. Clever boy." Tiago removed his grip on Richard's hand and pushed himself up, both hands on the bed now as his hips began pumping vigorously, pistoning in and out of Q. It was almost violent. It felt amazing. 

The entire bed quaked with the force of his thrusts and a low, continuous whine pulsed out of Q's throat. He squeezed himself and jerked in time to the pounding. He wasn't sure when he'd moved it, but his other hand was at the back of Tiago's neck, and he tangled it in his hair, pulling until he knew it must hurt. Just returning favors owed. 

The man on top of him snarled and changed the angle, hands gripping at Q's hips and lifting him up a bit, so that he was kneeling and pulling Q onto him. That didn't last long though, the position apparently unsatisfactory, and he slid a hand up Q's back, bringing him up to sit on him, straddling his lap, riding his cock. 

"You want more?" He ground out, again sounding borderline threatening. "Fuck yourself." 

Q let go his cock to grip at Tiago's shoulders with both hands while he situated his legs, before using his knees to press himself upwards. He dropped, the movement slow and jerky, but at least he understood what to do now. The next one came easier, and soon he was moving at a pace that left him gasping and wanting both to sob and never to stop. 

And then Tiago's hand closed around him, and he moaned. 

"When it is time, you will beg for it to end." 

The statement sent a shiver up his spine, and he was reminded of something he'd read in a case file from… from someone… his mind didn't want to reconnect. But it registered how much that sounded like he would be asking for a mercy killing. His body continued, though every part of him was trembling now. 

"I want to hear you say 'Tiago, please, let me come.'" He continued, and Q shut his mouth and swallowed, though it fell back open to pant immediately afterwards. 

"T-tiago." He started, yelping when the hand on him tightened and a spark of white heat spread through his lower stomach. He was close, so close now… "Tiago please, please… please let me." He sunk down and tried to lift himself again, but he felt like he'd lost control of his limbs. He scowled and tried again with little more success. Tiago, sensing his plight and probably laughing at it, began bucking upwards into him. 

"I need to come, please Tiago, please just let me, I want…please!" It broke forth in a litany of pleading, and Tiago kissed him, biting his lip as he twisted his wrist and thrust, the coordinated efforts wreaking havoc on his self control. But he hadn't said… he hadn't told him…

"Come." Tiago all but grunted, and Q felt weak with relief, more than happy to obey. He spilled out, his spunk falling on both of them, some sort of reedy, barely human moan following it.

He didn't remember ever having felt so close to losing consciousness any other time he'd had sex. 

His vision blacked, or maybe he just lost control of his eyelids. Either way, when he could see again, he was being carefully man handled onto his stomach, pillows stacked under his hips, and then Tiago was back inside of him, thrusting in and bearing down. Small noises of discomfort started coming out of his mouth, everything suddenly too sensitive, everything too much. 

It didn't last long though. He pressed back and onto Tiago's cock, and he felt him stiffen, stilling except for one or two jerks of his hips, before he collapsed on top of him. 

They lay that way for only a short minute before Rodriguez rolled over, pulled off the condom, and dropped it into a waste basket that Q hadn't noticed.  
He lay there, unmoving, catching his breath and processing through everything. 

He turned his head incrementally to try and see if it looked like he was about to be expelled from bed, or possibly tied up, drugged, shot… but Rodriguez seemed to have fallen asleep. 

A moment later, a slight snore came, and Q's heart leapt.  
He eased himself out of bed and pulled his pants back on. 

One eye on the bed, he powered up the laptop, using the same access code he'd found not all that long ago, back in MI6, and then he was in. 

There was a network. 

He opened MI6's intranet with a speed that came of familiarity, and accessed every active computer on it. Each one would display a message window with his MI6 ID number, name, and the words 'Silva, island' and the code for an armed retrieval.

Then he closed everything down and was just closing the laptop lid when the barrel of a gun was pressed to his ear. 

"Not nearly fast enough, Richard." Silva's eyes were hard, his face angry, and his voice lacking any sign of the joviality that seemed to often be present.

He opened his mouth to say something, but was silenced by a sharp pain to his head, and blackness that rose up to meet him.

Four.

He came to and immediately couldn't breathe. He had been sitting but he tipped forward onto his knees, attempting to catch himself, but his hands were cuffed behind him, so that he fell face first onto the floor of the tiny plane. 

Bile was welling up in his throat, and he-- couldn't—breathe…

"What is this? Your next trick, Mister Q?" He was gasping, eyes clenched closed tightly, and through the sound of his heart beat and the whirring of the propellers, he still heard the bite behind those words.  
"You really need not bother. Mother isn't coming for you—she's still hiding away like the little rat she is. Who can say if anyone even saw your little help me sign." 

Someone did. Someone had to. But it wouldn't matter if he—

"Please." He'd never sounded this weak before in his life. "Please, I—flying, I—" His words returned to hyperventilation, and his hands twisted around each other behind his back, making themselves into almost claws, nails digging into flesh and knuckles turning white. 

Silva barked out a mean sounding laugh, derisive. Bitter. 

"You can kill with a few clicks, you build things that can blow up if you breathe on them wrong, you took it in your ass to have a chance at escape, and you are afraid of flying? I have to say, Q, you are full of surprises."

He rolled onto his side, putting his back to Silva, and pressed his face against the cool smooth floor. He fought to control his breathing, but the plane lurched, and before he knew it he was scrambling to his feet and lunging at Silva, no real plan for attack—if he'd thought he was an animal when his mind went pleasantly numb in bed, it was nothing compared to the crippling haze of fear. 

Silva caught him and manhandled him into the seat next to him, pinning him down with his arms. Q squirmed, trying to fight his way free, even though he knew damn well that he lacked the strength. Or he would know, if he were capable of thinking like a fully developed human. Silva caught hold of his face and pressed it to the glass of the window. 

His breath fogged it over in great puffs, but that wasn't enough to obscure the view of the rotor on the wing, wobbling in a way that seemed less than conducive to them arriving safely wherever it was they were headed. It wasn't enough to keep from him the extreme height, to hide the terror inducing reality of his situation. 

He fucking whimpered, and the feeling of not being able to breathe came back. He stopped fighting, went limp.

"Mommy was very bad. Again. As usual. But mommy doesn't understand, doesn't know how to prepare you. She can't. She doesn't know what to do with you, does she? You're her newest toy, all intelligence, smart enough to question her but young enough not to. What will she do when you learn better? She can only do her best. But her best is no longer good enough, is it? No. She let you out with all these weaknesses, all these fears…" He was crooning it, his voice soothing and he was stroking up and down Q's chest. Q's still bare chest. Because he was only wearing his shorts. How had he not noticed? Right, because he was on a bloody plane. He started shaking again and felt that he might vomit.  
"Mommy betrayed you. She could have trained it out of you, but didn't. Perhaps she was saving this weakness for when you needed to be disposed of. She all but gave you to me, knowing I would find it, knowing I know how to break you with the knowledge." 

Q's eyes slid back to the rotor blade on the puddle jumper, and he squeezed them closed tight, humiliated at the warm slide of tears down his face. He keened, rocking back and forth. It didn't make him feel any better though, and Silva's words called to mind images of M arranging a firing squad to shoot him at forty thousand feet, and push him out of the plane, trusting the fall to take care of the body. He took a gasping, shaking breath, and felt the sting in his eyes, his lungs, his stomach, his ass. 

"Ah ah no, now, shh. Mommy is not very good at raising her sons, at teaching them to know better, but I have had a good many teachers since then. You're safe now, my poor, sweet, clever boy. Shhh."

He leaned in, curling into Tiago's chest as best as he could, ear pressed to the thin silk of his shirt, listening to his heart pump, and using that and the crooning hum that he emitted to drown out the sounds of flight. 

He rocked him, held him, and the motion of his body counteracted the motion of their movement. 

He was exhausted from his panic, and the aches of his body were catching up to him. But his mind was still simple, still bestial, and the comfort from the dread was enough to lull him. He was half asleep when he felt a prick into his neck, and then he went limp. 

He was only somewhat partially awake, not even halfway conscious when 007 boarded their plane. 

Had he been more aware, or capable of alarm, or moving, for that matter, he might have panicked again when the plane took a nose dive after Stefan fired a careless spray of bullets into the cockpit. Or when Bond snapped Stefan's neck like it was no more difficult than flipping a switch. Even in his drugged and incoherent state, he stirred when Silva jumped out of the plane with his parachute.  
And then he was left, groggy, undressed, cuffed, and alone on the floor of the plane, while Bond landed the damn thing.  
It occurred to him that he should try and remember if Bond was qualified to fly this make of plane—or anything, for that matter—but he was already slipping further from alertness when the thought crossed his mind. 

When Bond lifted him, his head lolled alarmingly, and Bond pulled his legs through the chains and brought his arms around his neck. He snuggled in close, rubbing his cheek into Bond's shoulder. 

"Missed several spots when shaving." He slurred. "I've learned a new technique. R'mind me to show you sometime." His words slid further and further together, and he almost wasn't sure Bond would understand, but judging by the small smile on his face, he did. 

He didn't know if there was a response, though, because Bond stood and the pull on his legs tugged at muscles inside of him, which was just the last straw needed to tip him into the chasm of unconsciousness.


	2. Act Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is back, but all is not well. 
> 
> By the end of this act, you will have a challenge to solve.
> 
> You have until December 21st to solve it. All the clues you need are in the first two acts of the story; the solution will be in the third.
> 
> First person with a correct answer in my Tumblr ask box (cryspeaches.tumblr.com/ask) gets custom fic written for them, any rating, any situation, any pairing, no holds barred. EDIT: http://antiheroical.tumblr.com/ got it!!
> 
> On the 21st or shortly thereafter, I will post the rest of the story, which will give you the answer.
> 
> Good luck, Agents, and happy reading.

One.  
While he was trapped in medical, everything changed at Skyfall. 

M was dead. Silva was dead. 

He'd been questioned, while confined to his bed, about what he had learned. They didn't ask him about the state of his body until the fifth day of his recovery, standard procedure for victims of potentially traumatic circumstance. Make sure they're grounded, first. Make sure they're stable. 

They intended to send him to a psychiatrist, until he explained that it hadn't been rape; that it had been his decision, made in the interest of creating a distraction, and staying alive. There had been traded looks, confusion, even a quickly smothered, but still obvious while it lasted, look of disdain. 

After that, the doctor came in, ran some basic evaluations on him, and pronounced him fit enough for discharge. He could go home.  
He refused the car and took the tubes. It was odd, being back, seeing how nothing had changed, not really, even though he felt like everything had. 

People were still rude or quiet or in the way, bobbing their heads to music others couldn't hear, checking their phones and reading, and completely unaware of what had really happened, what he'd been through—it wasn't as flashy as bombing MI6, granted, but… in his world, in his life, it had had the same sort of destruction. 

His flat hasn't changed much, either. He wants to change it though, has the urge almost from the moment he walks in the door. And he knows that's textbook—when you can't control things in your life, you control what you can. It explains away post-breakup haircuts and sudden wardrobe purges, furniture rearranging and new work out regimes. 

He wants to strip every bit of technology out of his home, send out a good sized EMP, and start fresh, and make it so he can't be spied on. 

He resists, though. He knows that whatever MI6 has in place now will just be replaced if he fries it, and he knows that will do nothing but make him look guilty, suspicious—he was in the hands of the enemy. He doesn't need those rumors starting. 

When he returns to work, he is as capable as he has ever been. Just as focused. More so, perhaps.

There was nothing to be ashamed of, about the act. Or getting kidnapped. He had held out, not given any secrets away. He had remained strong in the name of Queen and Country. He was a hero, just as much as any agent in the field was. More, even, because he wasn’t expected to face such situations, wasn't trained to. 

The newly elected M was impressed. But he was not offered active field duty, nor would he have taken it if he had been. 

He liked the relative safety of operating behind his screen and in the R&D labs. Q branch was happy to have him. 

And Bond came to return the mangled scrap that was all that was left of his radio. He had some fantastic story about his Walther having been eaten by a dragon that no one really believed, but that no one could challenge, because Moneypenny backed it up, and you could never tell when a field agent was bluffing.

He got back his usual routine. He went home after work, and made tea. Some things changed, though. His microwave dinners were replaced with real food, actual food. With seasonings. Fish and eggs and potatoes and cheese and onions. Pancakes for breakfast. He read less and went for more walks, and wondered about the history behind the buildings around his flat. 

His life had been here, waiting for him, but he'd left something behind, changed somehow, so that he didn't fit quite perfectly into the hole. The edges chafed. 

But everything was changing around him, too, so who would possibly notice? 

He stood as he always did, calm and collected. His tea in one hand, the fingers of his other tapping out complex codes and variables into the machines scattered throughout R&D. 

Mallory wanted briefings on every project that was underway in each branch, and while that was a sensible thing to ask, it could have been done in a meeting with each department head, as opposed to creating paperwork for everyone. 

No one was particularly happy, therefore, the day that Bond came strolling into Q branch. 

"Double-oh-seven." He greeted, almost curt. He could survive capture by a terrorist, could manipulate stocks if it suited him, could find damn near anyone in the world… and he was having trouble with the printer. He didn't have time to deal with Bond's inability to properly care for his weapons.

"Q." The man returned with a nod. Silence stretched on and he felt like he was being scrutinized.

"What is it that you need?" He asked pointedly, afraid that if it stretched on any longer, he'd flush, or snap. 

"I just came to see what was left." Bond spoke slowly and quietly, those disconcerting blue eyes still searching for something. 

"Of what? Your reputation? I'm afraid that was ruined when I got here. Unsalvageable. I'd suggest a replacement, but the Government cannot afford the effort, especially when it would only go to waste."

He spoke airily, but he had to put his cup down, because his hand was shaking. From anger, he told himself. He didn't need to be checked up on by anyone, least of all Bond.  
What qualified him anyway? 

"Silva has a way of burrowing under your skin." He said, ignoring Q's mean spirited tirade against his character. His brows furrowed and he stepped in closer. 

"Speaking from experience, Bond?" He asked, well aware that this couldn't be the other man's idea. He wasn't well known for being friendly or empathetic, if he wasn't trying to sleep with you. 

"I'm the only other one around here with that experience, Q." He replied evenly, his gaze still scrutinizing. Q had had enough of the games already. 

"Why are you really here, Double-oh-seven?" He all but snapped. 

"They aren't convinced that you said yes. They suspect that you're lying to save face and avoid committing to the time with our therapists." 

"And here I'd heard such wonderful things about the confidentiality of medical." He said, as though he was disappointed. As though his heart wasn't going faster than the bloody car he was supposed to be replacing for Bond ever could.  
"So what, they sent you to interrogate me? Or are you supposed to use your legendary charm to test and see if I really bend that way?" 

"I'm supposed to observe and see to it you're okay. Offer a sympathetic ear." 

"Not historically one of your stronger suits. And a bit of a couch job. So either they are really worried about security or you pissed M off somehow." 

"I may have compared him to Voldemort. Contrary to popular belief, I do see films occasionally." 

"You dog you. Well, I'm fine. Feel free to call it in, and go see one of your films." He gave Bond an almost-smile, feeling a tiny shred of camaraderie at the shared joke of annoying one's boss. 

"He does though. Have a way of getting under your skin. Doesn't he?" Bond was searching again, and Q sighed angrily, any warm feeling that may have been growing there all but gone. 

"Are you accusing me of having been compromised, Bond?" 

"Not in so many words, but now you've brought it up, have you been?" Q flushed angrily, well aware that it was likely several of the other members of Q branch were listening in, or at least within hearing distance. 

"So you suppose it's rape or treason? How is it that you have sex on ninety percent of your missions, and that's acceptable, but my doing my best of a shoddy situation warrants scrutiny?" He felt shrill, but his voice was hushed, trying to maintain some level of privacy in the matter, though he knew he really had none.

"Q—" 

"Would you like to see my psychological test results? Or no—I'm sure you have already. I passed. I'm fine. And I'm busy. Please show yourself out. I'm afraid I can't spare anyone."

"That isn't an answer, Q."

Tanner walked in and cleared his throat, hands crossed with a manila folder held in front of him. Hardly anything much to see, but Q found himself overly grateful for the interruption.

"That's all the answer you need. Excuse me, Bond. Mustn't keep His Lordship waiting."  
He slid past, shoulder checking the older agent on the way with a vicious glare that would have at least sliced him, if looks could kill. 

"Right." He heard Bond murmur, sounding annoyed, and he had to contain a willful smirk. 

The incident didn't escape him though, nor did the fact that Mallory had intervened, possibly after seeing it going pear shaped on a closed circuit camera. Q could check later, and made a mental note to do so. 

So who was playing whom, and to what end? He wasn't sure, but he certainly didn't like it much. It was invasive, and coming from one of the most celebrated hackers in the world, that was saying something. 

He straightened his tie as he followed Tanner, and began making lists of things he needed to address or see to, given the time. 007 and his meddling had just been moved to the top of his priorities. 

Two. 

"They say I should train you in marksmanship."  
Bond had developed a nasty habit of showing up unannounced and unwanted. The rest of Q department seemed to be under orders to ignore him and stay out of his way, and Q himself would be more than happy to be under the same instruction. Unfortunately, however, this was MI6 and they reveled in piling indignities atop injuries.

"Who is 'they'? Because the last time you told me 'they' told you to do something, it turned out M was nervous about your interest in me, which means he didn't send you down here." 

Bond shrugged. "Not at liberty to say. That said, this time it is M's doing. He thinks you ought to be able to defend yourself with one of your toys, just in case. Not that it would necessarily have kept you from being abducted, but you might have taken someone out and left a clue, so that we could have discovered your whereabouts and gotten to you sooner."

"Charming. I do wonder though—at what point did your people realize who had me? I can't imagine you didn't think it might be Silva almost immediately. And yet I know that I spent four days, drugged and in transit, before I even reached the island. And I have to think: Why did you not immediately check via satellite for activity on his last known base?"

Saying it was freeing. It was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach that had been there all the time. 

"I know M was a higher priority." His voice had lowered now, out of respect for the dead, but it remained low because if he tried to vocalize anything, he would be choking on the feelings behind it. "But did I really count for so little? I would think, if not for my stunning personality, I'd have been rescued at least for the threat to national security that I posed if I was compromised." 

Bond was staring at him now. 

"There is more than one way to be compromised, Q. And I really think you have been. But that remains to be seen, and don't think that changing the subject is going to get you out of your weapons lesson." 

"Don't think a weapons lesson is going to change the subject." He returned. "And if you are so sure of my compromised status, are you certain you want to place a gun in my hands and not just march me straight to M?" 

"To be frank, Q, I suspect you have something more lofty than a gun on your person as it is, and if you really intended to do me harm, I expect it would have happened by now. But M says to teach you guns, and I expect it's half to test me and be sure that I have actually improved my aim back to its past good standing, so there isn't much point in resisting it. So, shall we?" 

Q stared at the creases in the man's face, at the corners of his eyes, the smile or frown marks around his lips, and he wasn't entirely sure how they had formed. Bond had always seemed damn near expressionless, his emotions registering only as tiny flickers of movement, twitches in the muscles of his face.  
He was hard to read, but if he had to put name to what he was feeling right now, he supposed it would be amusement. 

How infuriating. 

It was not a long walk to the shooting ranges. That made sense; after all, each time they developed something new, it had to be tested, and yes, while Q had done his own fair share of trigger pulling, it was never about his aim but rather about testing the attributes of the gun/bow/missiles/shaped explosive charge. 

Maybe next time, he would create a target finding gun. Voice activated perhaps. That might be fun—and would render these lessons unnecessary. 

In the meantime, he was beginning to think that perhaps Bond really was testing his sexual flexibility. 

Two shots in, Bond had ended up molded against his side and back, one hand resting on his hip, one outstretched, his finger covering Q's own where it rested just outside the trigger guard.  
"You never put your finger on the trigger unless you intend to shoot something. You never aim a gun at something unless you intend to utterly destroy it. I don't care if it's loaded, if the safety is on, or if you're just hefting it for weight. Lack of respect for a weapon isn't something I expect I have to worry about with you, but there it is." 

"Yes, thank you for that. That said, having already manage to hit my target in the shoulder, might we move on to my killing it and having done with this farce?" 

"Right. Look down the barrel. Line the sight up with your intended point of impact. Let out a slow breath, slide your finger into the trigger guard, and don't jerk the trigger, squeeze it gently, the way you would a woman's nipple—"

"Really Bond." His voice was flat, and he turned to look at his supposed professional of an instructor.

"Yes really. Come on, you've broken stance. Spread your feet back out, there you go. Now. Aim. Breathe… and…" He made minor corrections and leaned in until they were all but cheek to cheek to double check Q's aim. "Squeeze." 

The word was practically breathed into Q's ear, and he felt his heart rate jump as his finger obeyed of its own accord.  
There was a slight noise, like a sting, as the silencer did its job for the most part, and then the sound of a bullet impacting with paper and then the back wall of the shooting gallery. 

"Well done." Bond was several feet away suddenly and casually, and M was there, casting a critical eye on the target. 

Q could feel his cheeks flushing. 

"I'd like to see that every time, Q. You should take some time to come in here each evening before you head home, if you would please, until you can hit in the ten range with every shot. Bond, keep up the good work." 

M walked the way he spoke, calmly, at a careful pace, and with no hesitation or noise. Even his arm being in a sling hadn't stopped his being able to sneak up on Q, and from the look on Bond's face, he wasn't the only one considering getting M a bell. 

"I don't suppose that qualifies as quite enough of this for one day?" He asked Bond hopefully, once he was certain M was out of hearing range. 

"I think you should hit the other two targets—kills on both and tea's on me." Bond's lips arranged themselves into the tiniest smirk, and Q's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

"What's the catch?" He prompted. 

"Go through the clip without killing both, tea's on you." 

Q ejected the magazine and did a quick mental tally, then looked appraisingly at the two targets. 

"With pleasure." He returned, reloading and moving back into position. 

Bond leaned back against the wall at the edge of his peripheral, and stayed there the whole time while Q shot. He offered soft spoken recommendations and tips, but for the most part, seemed content to observe. 

The burn of his eyes on Q was enough to keep him flushing, no matter how he tried to block it out and concentrate on his target. 

As a result, he found himself at the tiny tea shop up the street from MI6 with a very smug looking Bond in tow and his wallet in hand, mumbling about meddling agency heads. 

 

"Rough day?"  
The barista working on his Earl Gray latte was sympathetic sounding, sweet, and he offered her a tiny smile and a sigh while he fought for something suitably quippy to respond with. 

Before the words had formed on his tongue, though, Bond was there, a possessive hand settling between his shoulder blades and a winning smile aimed at the girl behind the counter. 

"Nothing some steamed cream and an unhealthy amount of sugar won't fix, hey darling?" He slid his hand down to Q's waist and pulled him so that their hips jostled.  
The girl responded to Bond with a smile of her own, her eyes flicking back and forth between Bond and Q before she went back to the drink preparations. 

Q had to physically bite down on his tongue to keep from trying to correct the assumptions she was drawing about them. Ultimately, he reminded himself, it didn't matter. But he wondered why Bond would choose to play this sort of game, and why he would involve him in it. Was this some sort of test, too? 

He waited until she went to get a lid for his drink, and then turned to face Bond.  
"Afraid she'll be the next to compromise me, darling?" He hissed acidically, and Bond shrugged one shoulder and gave him a bland smile, saved from actually having to reply by the return of the barista, bearing their drinks.

"Perfect. Thanks." Bond made a show of tipping the girl and then collecting both of their drinks, carrying them to a table so that Q had no choice but to follow and look like the lesser polite one in their supposed relationship. 

"Any particular reason you wanted to pretend we're a couple for the cute barista?" He asked, sitting down. 

"She was making eyes at you and I figured she would be less likely to interrupt a coffee date between two lovers than if she thought you and I were just friends." 

"I actually like it when baristas make eyes at me, thanks. We don't all get paid to fly 'round the globe and sleep with the women of exotic locales." 

Bond shrugged.  
"My mistake. I figured since you buggered Silva…" 

He trailed off and took a drink of his tea, slurping slightly.  
Human after all, Q managed to think through his rage. 

He stood, chair screeching across the floor. 

"You may take your suppositions about my loyalty and my sexual preferences and wedge them firmly up your arse. Preferably sideways." He spoke clearly and just loud enough that he knew the cute barista would hear. He lifted his glass and watched with detached smugness when Bond stiffened, obviously expecting steaming hot liquid to be thrown on him. But Q just took a sip, raised his mug in a salute to the girl behind the counter, and saw himself out. 

He considered for a moment returning to work, but he was sure that he would somehow magically run into M, and he was truly not in the mood, so he simply decided to go home. He tugged his parka tighter against him, and shoved his free hand deep into the fleece lined pocket. 

"Bloody Bond." He muttered. "Bloody M. Bloody…" He paused. "…Silva." He finished quieter. 

The walk to the tubes was not a pleasant one. 

Three. 

"Just stop right there, Bond." Q's head jerked up and he all but snarled at his visitor. 

"I've not even made it in the door yet." There was a caution in his voice, and he was studying the floor tiles as though he thought they might be rigged to explode.

"That's the point. Look, I don't need you down here. You're ruining productivity and morale and what's more, I don't like you. So you may turn right back around and go tell M or whoever it is that put you up to this program of pestering that I am fine, and if they really think I'm not, they are more than welcome to refer me to an actual professional, because I won't deal with you and your constant state of workplace sexual harassment." 

"They picked me because I know Silva, I know how he works. They picked me because of my reputation. They picked me because of my workplace sexual harassment. They've been hoping it would trigger you." Bond sounded legitimately apologetic. 

"Trigger me?" There was a sinking feeling in his chest. Did they suppose he'd been brainwashed into some sort of weapon?

"They think you lied. Think you never said yes, that you're lying to save your pride and save face. They think you'll shake apart, or worse, go rogue. You understand, with your permissions and abilities, why we can't risk that happening. They want me to break you down, find out the truth, make you admit that he—"

"He didn't. And no amount of glossy coating of worry is going to change the fact that you think I am a victim of rape, and are trying to make me uncomfortable enough to admit to having been raped." The words alone were bitter and disgusting in his mouth. 

"I would rather this than end up having to kill you later because we let a problem go too easily, Q." 

"Look. I told you, I told them: I slept with him as a means of distraction in order to get a signal out. I made a decision, made a plan, and that was how you found me. I slept with a man to save my own ass, and frankly, it wasn't terrible. So just stop, okay? I'm not going to blow up a building because I had a prick in my bum. I am not going to go on a mass murder spree because I've had a cock in my mouth. It wasn't even the worst sex I've had. I got off. So please, just for the love of all we both hold dear, drop it." Much of the department had managed to clear by the time he was done talking, and he would have been embarrassed if he had enough presence of mind to give a shit. 

"You coded for him while you were there." Bond's voice was still even, still intolerably sure of himself. 

"I started a code yes. A security code. It wasn't even as advanced as I was making it sound… it just generates more layers of protection each time you fail to anticipate the mathematical sequence that the encryption is in. I never finished it, and there was never anything in the code that would have harmed any computer trying to access his, nor would it have aided him in accessing anything of ours. It was, to be very honest, the safest thing I have coded since uni."

"And they know this?" 

"I would assume so—they sent people back to the island after you saved me, didn't they?"

"It's the only way I know of that they would have your coding work."

"Exactly. So is this really so much about me, as it is pitting us against each other? Maybe they're putting us together to keep an eye on both of us, Double oh seven. What do you say to that?"

"…Maybe so." He looked stoic, unaffected by the words, but there was something there, and Q found himself pushing the point.

"After all, you were left alone with him too. And as you said, he has a way of getting under your skin. Had. Had a way of getting under your skin." He corrected. 

"Has may be more correct." Bond admitted. 

Q went still, stunned.  
"I thought—" his voice had gone quiet, weak. "I thought he was dead." 

"So did we, but body retrieval never found him. Didn't you read the reports on what happened at Skyfall?" Bond sounded honestly surprised, and to be fair, Q couldn't blame him. He was usually the sort to go through and find out as much about everything as humanly possible. 

"I avoided it, actually. A little close to home, if you don't mind my saying so. Besides, all I needed to know was that you killed him. But… you didn't? I'm surprised they don't think it's you who's been compromised."

The silence stretched on uncomfortably long after that, and Q cleared his throat. 

"You… haven't been, have you? I mean, you did think you'd killed him." His lips were dry, and he found himself wetting them nervously with his tongue.

"I thought I did, but what if I didn't… and what if that was on purpose?" Bond's words were remorseful, but he didn't look it. He just shrugged. 

"So you have thought it was you who was compromised this whole time, and you just thought it would be easier to accuse some green behind the ears Q branch agent, rather than admit your own supposed failings? You buried a knife in his back. You didn't hesitate when it mattered. You do this for a living… aren't you used to being haunted by it yet?"  
He knew he was being an ass, but he was relieved, and he was pressing his advantage while he had it.

"Usually when you say haunted, you mean just by guilt. I'm not used to killing people and having them come back."

"So you do, you think he's alive then?" There is some desperation in his voice now, some unsteadiness.

"I won't believe he'd dead until I see his body go up in flames myself." Bond spoke and then locked his jaw stubbornly. Q wished it could make him feel better, but now he wasn't so sure. 

He thought Bond might be able to tell. His shoulders slumped just ever so slightly and he turned away. 

He stopped, not looking back over his shoulder, and lifted his head to be sure Q would be able to hear him. 

"Don't forget your target practice." He reminded, and somehow, that was what made Q's shoulders unknot a bit. 

He found himself nodding. 

"I won't." He muttered, more for his sake than for Bond's.

As he stood there, holding his own palm print coded Walther, he wondered what would come of it. Would Silva come back for him? Would MI6 make him aid in the search for him? Did they even trust him enough to do so?

He squeezed off round after round, slowly graduating inwards.  
The last shot went directly through the center of the paper heart, and Q smiled with grim satisfaction. 

"Come for me." He whispered. "I'll be ready this time." 

"That's the spirit!" He heard, and he quickly shucked his protective ear gear.  
Mallory—M—had come to observe him again. He carefully turned the safety on and lay the gun out on the table before addressing his superior with an icy glare. 

"Sir." He bit out, the word an accusation in and of itself. M held his hands up.  
"I would advise that you rethink whatever bugs you have had placed on or around me for the last week or so. If they are still there tomorrow, I will begin employing creations of mine that will utterly destroy them, and I would hate to see her Majesty's coin wasted on spying on the wrong people." He wasn't afraid for his job. If he was disposable, the moment they worried for his loyalty, he would have been fired. 

"You do understand though, don't you? You and Bond both—my top two agents on opposite ends of the board, and he got his hands on both of you. If I were Silva, I would not rest until I had one or both of you on my team." 

"Noted and understood. What I don't understand however is why, if we are the best, you have been occupying us with each other instead of employing our combined and frankly considerable talents in finding him." 

Mallory shook his head. "Silva is a bit tech and a bit traditional, and if he's gone to ground, which it seems he has, do you truly expect you-- or Bond for that matter—will be able to find him?"

"We should at least be trying." Q said firmly. "Or doing something other than playing babysitter for one another." 

"Then try. I was hoping once the two of you got past sniping at each other, you might be moved to mounting your own investigation." 

"That would have been very much against the rules. Sir." Q said, studying the face of the man now running things. He wasn't exactly what any one had been expecting. A little tougher. A little smarter. And much, much sneakier. 

"And when has that ever stopped either of you before?" He asked. 

Q had no answer to that, and Mallory just smiled and patted him on the arm. 

As he turned and walked away, it occurred to Q that that was probably—no, it was, without doubt—the strangest pep talk he'd ever been given. Even still, he went home feeling better than he had in days. 

Clearer headed. More focused. It made sense, though. After all, he had a goal now. And a score to make even.

 

Four.  
"I take it you've had your own lovely little talk with Mallory?" Q asked, the moment he sensed the presence of his stealthy shadow. 

He hadn't caught Bond in his flat before, but he supposed it was possible he'd been here, and had just not wanted to be caught. Q could go through the recorded dailies, but really who had time for that? If it was anyone but Bond, he'd be concerned for his security. But just like him being able to access something electronically didn't necessarily mean their security was too lax, Bond being able to get past his was no real surprise. 

"Listened in on yours, actually." They both sounded surer, more secure now that they understood the point to it all. This they could handle, knowing what the next step was and what they had to do. 

"Charming." He sniped back. 

"So what do you know? What information do you have on… say, the men who worked for him?" Q took a drink of his rapidly cooling tea, then started in on it. 

"The only one I knew by name was Stefan—you saw to him. However, Silva hired several hackers and coders, in preparation for my writing for him. Since at any given time I do try to keep a relatively good grasp of who is where, I traced the IPs of a few of them back to the island. They've since scattered, but here are their names." He handed Bond a list of contact information, a small headshot provided from schools or webchats or surveillance cameras beside each of the five of them. 

"I've ordered them from persons most of interest to least. The first there runs a ring of petty thieves who use computers to hack their way into small local banks. I imagine they'll be considering upgrading soon, though they'll find that their toys don't work nearly so well when the place has been prepped for it. I doubt they'll learn easily, though, so if you could perhaps have a word with Mr. Badesha before he is apprehended, it would be appreciated." 

Bond stared at him for a moment, then turned his attention to the paper in his hands. 

"I understand this is unofficial, and I'm sure if you can get in Mallory has decided to listen in on my place too, so I will file for leave for you with Miss Moneypenny tomorrow, if you'd like… and I took the liberty of taking out these for further practice on my marksmanship. Seeing as how you are, for better or worse, the trigger finger of my good hand, I'm entrusting them to your care, but do try and bring them home in one piece?" 

He handed over twin Walthers, this time in P38 form.  
"Modified, again, to your palm. I've added the ability to long distance push through an override to it if something happens, so if you slice open your hand or some such thing, do let me know. She takes nine millimeters, so you should have no problem keeping her loaded. Radio, call for help as needed. Though this little vacation isn't officially sanctioned, I think we both know that they would never be comfortable leaving so valuable an asset stranded, and if need be I will hire you a cab myself. And this. This drive contains a virus that will make the hard drive of the computer give me updates to its status and whereabouts, making it easier for me to track any computer you install it on, whether it is online or not."  
"I hope your Christmas gifting is more thorough, or I'm sure that the friends in your life have been very disappointed." 

"Honestly, what more could you want, Bond?" He knew he sounded a touch exasperated, but he really didn't see any reason for Bond to be anything less than pleased that he was even being supplied for this outing at all. 

"You know, I used to get given things like cars, exploding pens, shoes with gadgetry built in…" 

"Oh, yes, right. They've finally gotten around to replacing your Aston Martin DB five. Here you are." He dropped the keys into Bond's waiting palm. 

"I made sure you had all the luxuries you're accustomed to, save the ejecting button. That now hosts nitrus boosts for brief jots of additional speed. And there is a gun in the glove compartment that fires tracking beacons."

"Father Christmas does exist." Bond deadpanned, and Q sighed as though annoyed, but gave him a real smile. 

"And next time, Bond, do ring before coming over, and use the front door." 

"We'll see." He said, tucking away his keys into his inner breast pocket. 

"Good luck." Q offered, and stood when Bond did, following him to the door and locking him out. 

The phone rang a moment later. 

"M says Bond has three days, then he has to check back in before you can send him out again. And he says if the Walthers are lost or damaged, you have to build new ones from scratch." She sounded long suffering, but he could hear the excitement in her voice.  
"Understood, Miss Moneypenny."

There was a pregnant pause, during which he wondered if she was perhaps expecting him to argue with her about his responsibility for the weapons, but she finally broke it. 

"You get him for mum, Q." She told him, the words clipped to try and hide emotion. She hung up immediately after, and though he knew the line was well and truly dead, he spoke to the room and those who were listening anyway. 

"We will." It was an assurance, a promise. He intended to. And not just for the late M. 

Bond checked in less than two hours later. Which was fine—this should be a less than thrilling adventure, as far as he's concerned. Relatively local, reasonably low likelihood of any real danger. After all, Programmers and hackers are not well known for being overly violent. 

"He owns a bodega." Bond's voice comes through, clear though it's obvious he's mumbling, trying not to draw attention to the fact that he's talking to himself.  
"Must pay the bills somehow that looks legitimate. You know Timothy from accounting has an etsy store." 

"Does he really? Tea cozies?" 

"Mm." It was an agreement, but it also was Q noticing a disturbance inside.  
"Hang on Bond, something is happening."

"Yes, I see that." Came the delightfully acerbic purr, and Q wanted to reach through the lines and throttle him. He found his fist clenching, and he pushed it flat on the table, leaning his weight on it so that the hand would stop shaking. 

"Care to share, then, what it is you see?" 

"Chavs. A gaggle of them. Young, probably teens. Trying to get hands on alcohol before they're legal, I'd wager. Ah, to be young again." Bond delivered it in his same dry voice, but it was banter, one of the best expressions the man seemed to have of an actual personality. And he was tense, or he wouldn't be bantering. 

Why though? This should be a simple walk in and walk out job. Unless the nerves aren't for this job, but for the underlying one. Not good. 

Q cast about for a distraction. 

"Yes, I suppose it's been positively eons since you had to worry about being carded, hm?" Petty, yes, and unprofessional—he could see his fellow Q branchers trading speculative looks, and he could only imagine the conclusions being drawn behind their shuttered faces. He'd deal with it later. 

"Unlike you, who just gained his cards what, two weeks ago? Three?" 

"I'm sad to say that the reports of your charm seem to have been greatly exaggerated, double-oh-seven." He thought he heard someone choking behind him. Didn't turn; probably Tanner, scandalized by the thought of him apparently flirting with Bond.  
To be fair though, this was off the clock. He was merely using the display space, as even if he were to disrupt the wiring of his work stations and daisy chain his three screens at home, they still would hardly cover all that he wanted to see. 

"And reports of your omnipotence. Isn't there any way you can tell me better what's going on in there?" Bond obviously didn't like being left out in the cold. The man was used to being part of the action, not just sitting and letting it happen. 

"Hang on, let me see if the bodega has security cameras." He wonders if Bond can hear his fingers flying over the keys as he launches himself at them. 

"Here we go. Oh, how charming, it's a stick up. Well, may as well use the distraction for what it is—looks like there's a fire escape on the eastern side of the building. His loft is on the second floor, the ladder goes right next to the window." 

"Right." Nothing else. Now that Bond has a fixed motive, he's on it, doesn't need anything else. Why had he waited for the go-ahead though? He usually was all about hitting the ground running. 

Maybe neither of them were in the best shape—another good reason for this not to be official MI6 business. If something went wrong…

Something went wrong. 

Bond got the file onto the computer, Q copied the C drive onto his own computer. Everything was going well, until he glanced down at the monitor showing the store below. 

"Bond. Bond, he has a bomb." Is there a note of panic in his voice? Surprise? He'll have to work on that.

Badesha was fighting back now, or at least gesticulating angrily at the young punks. And he had a bomb, looking like something right out of a bad television drama.

"Do I disarm the situation?" Bond's voice was strained. 

On the monitor, Badesha's hand crashed to his chest. 

"Too late, just run." 

Bond obeyed immediately, and Q jerked his attention away from the monitor, double checking that he had everything he needed from the computer, really, that was the reason he hadn't watched, he wasn't afraid of looking. Wouldn't do for anyone in charge of his kind of surveillance to be too squeamish. 

Bond was two roofs away when the building collapsed in a shower of smoke and flame. Small, shaped explosions might take a minute, but they destroyed structural integrity just as well as any other type of destructive force. He followed Bond's progress, relieved that he'd escaped.

He didn't stop though, kept running, ignoring Q's instructions for reaching ladders, for getting down off the rooftops. 

"Bond." His voice is a commanding snap across their connection. Nothing. He's worried, doesn't see any one or anything after him. He catches sight of Bond's hand coming up to his ear. Going to yank it out, going to lose connection to him. Going to have to deal with one of Bond's most poorly timed disappearances ever. He stopped him with a calm, quietly delivered, "James. Stop." 

Everything went deadly silent on both sides of the line. No more running and jumping, no more typing, no more quiet conversations.  
You didn't use names on missions. You didn't say them in front of a department, even if everyone knew who 007 was.  
He ignored it, though, ignored everything but the harsh breathing on the other side of the call.  
"You see, Mr. Bond? No need for all this running around, all this jumping. It's exhausting. Relax. You need to relax." He says it with an intensity born of real worry. The jokes are all true, and the man is getting old. If he runs himself into the ground, Q is at risk. Vulnerable. They need both of them to equal Silva, to have any hope against him. 

Bond's intake of breath sounds painful, and Q worries he's hurt himself somehow. But Bond disconnects, and Q curses softly. 

Tanner steps up, takes gentle hold of Q's arm, and Q pulls off his headset. 

"M needs to see you." He says, voice equally gentle, and Q experiences a sudden surge of anger at being handled like a shocky child. Or one who should be apologetic for his actions.  
He goes, but his jaw is set, his lips pressed thin. 

 

When he gets home, he is more than indignant, he is furious. Partially at himself. More at Bond. 

Supposedly they've both been cleared to be back on active duty. Neither of them should be failing so terribly. And he's sure Bond is just as angry at him as he is at Bond. 

He isn't surprised, therefore, when he barely closes the door behind himself before finding his back to the wall and a heavy arm across his throat. 

Hard, harsh lips crash down on his, and he fights back with more of the same, frustration and pent up nerves manifesting in a shower of absolute lust at a moment's notice. He's dizzy with it, heady even, or maybe it's the arm pressing down into his wind pipe. 

Bond pulls away and the hair on his jaw scrapes and stings. 

"You sounded like him today." He said, words quiet and eyes on Q's lips, before flicking up to his face. 

"I know. M made me read the file on Skyfall. I hadn't… I didn't mean to—" Lips fall back on his, more languid now, calmer and more fixated on teasing. 

An expert leg slid between his own, expert hands on his hips. Bond was an expert everything, an expert lover, an expert killer. An expert tease. He wanted this, was starving for it suddenly, but he felt terrified that he wouldn't be able to keep up, that Bond might be disappointed.

"Bond, I—you know I don't, that is. Silva was the first man and—well women of course, but—" He hadn't felt so ill-equipped to handle a situation since uni. Bond was still, and it became so unbearably awkward, the silence, the scrutiny. Q lifted his hands to push away the arm that Bond held to his neck still. 

Bond caught his hand easily. He cradled the fingers of the captured hand in his palm, inspecting them. It made Q nervous. After all, they were his livelihood. And Bond could easily snap them, slice them off, mangle them with little more effort than he straightened his collar with. And true, M would not appreciate it, but Bond didn't have the best of relationships with authority figures. 

"I've not been to a ballet in a while, but your fingers remind me of dancers' legs. Thin and tapered, strong and fast, delicate looking, but deadly if you put them to it… and jointed just the same. Ankles," he tapped the knuckle closest to the tip of his finger, "knees." The second knuckle. And then Q drew in a breath as Bond lifted his hand to his face and deliberately licked the apex of the V between middle and pointer fingers, unblinking, his attention unwavering from Q's eyes. 

The warmth rushed to his face as he flushed, and he pulled his hand away as if stung. 

Bond smirked, and he was half tempted to slap him.  
"Well? I've been told my charm has been greatly exaggerated. Is it working?" Bond nuzzled in close to him, lips just brushing the side of his face. He thought it was likely Bond would be able to feel the pounding of his pulse in his neck. "Can I take you to bed?"

"I want to." He admitted. "Only just…" He trailed off, shrugging as best he could in the limited space he had. 

He felt pulled taut, tightly strung, like an over wound musical instrument. Waiting to be played, but if set upon too quickly or too vigorously, the strings would snap, the wood splinter, and all would be lost. 

Bond stroked the side of his face gently, soothingly, and he melted into the touch, grateful for it though he hadn't realized he wanted it, craved it, until just now.  
"Shh. It's okay, I understand. I'll be gentle." He pressed a kiss in between his words. "I'll take care of you." Another kiss, and a hand slipping to his waist. "I'll go slow, right up until you're begging for me not to."

Q gasped and pushed him back, stumbling away from him sideways, before tripping and laying himself flat. 

"What's the matter, Q?" He asked, suddenly cool and unaffected. 

Q felt as though he'd been kicked in the ribs. 

"Bad form, James." He mumbled. 

Bond was frowning now, brow bunched though it didn't even begin to reach his mouth, but he didn't seem to have a response. 

"I'm not—this isn't some kind of game. How dare you?" He was indignant, and pushed himself to sitting up, then stood, mindful of how he must look, how desperate and pathetic. He pulled the door open, trying to ignore the reminder that it was the same door he'd been pushed against so recently.

"Leave. Now. I don't… I don't want to see you until I come back into the office, and don't you dare seek me out special. Let me have time to go through the information you won today, and then… then we'll figure out where to go from here."  
He didn't want to completely alienate the man. He needed him. Wouldn't be safe without him. 

Bond opened his mouth to object, and Q just raised a slightly shaking hand and pointed outwards, the way one might direct a bad dog. He didn't meet his eyes. 

Bond snapped his mouth closed audibly, nodded, and left.  
"See you at work then." He said, voice flat and unreadable. 

Q leaned hard against the door and gasped in a quivering breath of air. 

He knew Bond had a reputation for ruthlessness in the field, but he'd never heard of him being so unkind on an interpersonal level. Then again, maybe that was fitting for the relationship of bickering that they'd formed. He hurt Bond; Bond hurt him back. What a pair they made. 

M was out of his mind, making them work together. 

But then, there really wasn't anyone else. 

Q turned on his water, and just prayed not to dream tonight. He'd tackle the contents of Badesha's laptop later, and tackle the contents of his emotional depths preferably never. 

Five.

The next two missions on their list went seamlessly. Perfectly within the guides, if there were such things. In, out, no property damage, not even close shaves with getting caught. 

Bond did his job and did it well, none of his usual flair, strictly business. And Q provided nothing but the bare necessities of intel, not volunteering more unless asked. Bond wouldn't stoop to ask, though, so really it became a game of 'how much can I hamper the situation and still have it go well?' It was a game they both knew they were playing, a game of making more work for one another without actually being willing to bring it up. These were easy missions, no reason not to challenge one another.

M noticed, and gave Q disapproving and disappointed looks. But he couldn't really say anything. They are playing by the rules, after all. To the letter. 

Q is certain that Bond had a good talking to by M, as well. He avoided him now. Hadn't returned anything yet, though Q knew he still had all of the equipment. At least he didn't have to continuously check the pieces in and out of holding. At least they hadn't been eaten, this time.

It feels like a failure, somehow, when a week passes and they have found nothing, but finally, on the fourth computer, he finds something familiar. 

The bit of code he'd started for Silva. It was hosted on an FTP site that wasn't live, but originated from the hacker's computer. The odd thing was how it was hidden—set up so that it wouldn't appear until you hit the keys on the keyboard. Any key. Then it would start typing itself as you watched. ((http://hackertyper.net/135464994823))

He made a copy, saved it to his desktop, and that was that. He didn't spare it another thought. Just went on combing for any sign that Silva was alive. That any of these people had heard from him, were still reporting to him, might have some connection with someone who would know more. But it turned up nothing, over and over. 

And while he knew that if Silva really wanted to, he could probably go to ground just as well, if not better than Bond… he felt a little safer. Because there was no sign of him. 

Wouldn't it be funny if both of them were spending all this time, just running from a ghost?

After that fourth, achingly stilted mission, again in the control room for Q's comfort and ability to spread out, Tanner appeared at his elbow. 

"M would like to speak with you. Again." He said, shrugging apologetically. 

Q stared for a moment. 

"If he outlaws contractions, I quit. There is very little else I can think of that would be more proper than the way we've been behaving."

"I didn't say what he wanted." Tanner said reproachfully, and Q sighed. He pressed a finger to his headpiece. 

"Come on in, Bond. His Lordship and I are going to have words, so expect a summons of your own."

"Good luck." The most comfortable and polite exchange that they have had in two weeks. Q disentangled from his tech and stood, gesturing for Tanner to lead the way with a sardonic little half bow. 

The door to M's office swung closed silently behind him, and he found himself turning to watch it, making sure it was actually closed. Before turning back to face his superior, a single eyebrow raised. 

M sighed and stood, his sling now demoted to a simple brace. 

"Q." He greeted, and gestured at the chair on the other side of the desk. 

Q nodded and folded himself into it, folded his hands across his lap. Restrained himself, as though he felt he might need it. He was on a far more even keel than the last time he was in here, to be fair, and that hadn't been all that terrible.

"So. His Lordship?" M smiled tightly. 

"A title denoting deference and respect." Q returned, being intentionally owlish and mild. 

"That's the spirit." M volleyed back. "When I said you should maintain your professionalism, I didn't mean you should lose your personalities. I think you ought to have another little sit down with Bond. In fact I'd like to request that you do. Neither of you is performing optimally, Quartermaster, and Her Majesty counts on you for the maintenance of her assets."

"That is the job description, isn't it? Fine. I expect you'll tell him to meet me at mine when he gets in, if he even bothers coming here first." He stood, eager to leave the office, to get out from the carefully maintained distance that M kept, despite his attempts at being 'close' and 'connected' to his agents. 

"Was there anything else, M?" He prompted, hoping for a dismissal.  
"We won't be watching or listening, Q. I promise you that. Whatever needs aired between you—just see that it's taken care of. I don't want to see you in here again until then."

"Sir." Q acknowledged, unhappy with the last bit. Who knew how difficult Bond might decide to be?  
Fortunately, he was more than capable of working from home if that was the case.

The tubes were just as packed as ever, and he hated the way it felt like there were always eyes on him. He knew, better than most, actually, how true that was.  
Eyes on him on the way home, eyes on him when he got in his flat. He was going to find and destroy their spy devices, it was a project he planned to take on as soon as this Silva business was over, and he truly meant it this time. 

But M had given him his word that no one was watching now, and there was a more pressing set of eyes watching him evenly from his sofa. 

"Bond." He greeted, still cautious. He took a deep breath, pulled his bag off over his head, and prepared to apologize, but Bond beat him to it.  
After a fashion. 

"Your reporting is awful. You should have written that he'd told you those things. I would have avoided doing the same." His words had the tone of crunching gravel, and Q felt terribly common about it, but he couldn't help himself. 

"Before we discuss this any further, would you like some tea?" 

Bond turned and lifted a mug from the table beside him, hidden from view by the arm of his couch. 

He took a sip, then made a face and Q laughed. 

"I won't ask how long you've been here. But I'll make fresh. You can talk to me in the kitchen in the meantime, if you like. It'll be warmer than in here at any rate." He shucked his winter parka, the large one that he knew his coworkers found ridiculous, but that kept even his thin frame warm. 

He turned his overhead lights on and filled his teapot. 

When he turned, Bond had snuck up behind him, as he'd half expected him to do. He prided himself on not having jumped at suddenly being faced with the man standing in the doorway. 

His voice was quiet, nearly drown out by the sound of his pot being put on the smooth glass of his electric stovetop. 

"So you weren't trying to punish me, then. It wasn't a cruel joke." They weren't really questions, but it was a thought that took some getting used to. 

With all the reputations and expectations, it was sometimes hard to remember that the people on his side were just as human as he was. As Tiago had made himself seem. 

"For someone who is supposedly highly intelligent, you're a bit of a git. Or is it just that your intelligence has been exaggerated?" 

He turned away again, not really comfortable facing Bond, not just this second. Not during this line of questioning. 

"I'm settling back in, still." He offered. An excuse. An evasion, and they both knew it.

He could feel the warmth of the agent behind him, his body heat emanating outwards and seeping through Q's clothes. But he wasn't touching him. Not yet. Hesitating. 

"I'm not breakable, Bond." He spoke carefully, enunciating the words just as clearly as he had the day they'd first met. He placed the tea tin on the counter before turning to face Bond, a spark of annoyance flaring at the idea of being treated like some sort of fragile thing. 

"No." Bond agreed, closing the space between them and pressing his hips backwards and into the harsh edges of the drawers behind him.  
"No, you're already broken. I'm just being mindful of the edges." 

Q swallowed, his eyes flicking down to James's lips.  
"There's that charm I'd heard so much about." He mumbled, distracted, and then they were kissing. He wasn't sure who leaned in, or maybe they both did, but it hardly mattered.

It wasn't like before, neither painfully passionate nor so slow as to be teasing. This was exploratory, careful without being too light, exciting without attempting to out do one another. This was balanced. This was better, and right. 

When the pot began to whistle, they both jumped, far too distracted to have noticed the warning sounds of rushing steam. 

Deftly, gracefully, as though he weren't likely blushing from the roots of his hair to the neck of his jumper, Q clicked off the burner and readied their two cups, well aware of how his hands shook a little, and how somehow breaking apart had made him aware of his nether regions' reaction to the contact.

He left the cups in place on the counter to steep, and turned back to drape his arms around Bond's neck. Feeling bold, he leaned into his chest, bringing them both closer together.  
He licked the lobe of his ear, and then spoke, so that his breath would tease across the skin there. 

"My name is Richard Dillinger." 

"Bond. James Bond." He offered with a slight sardonic amusement tinting his voice. 

"Well James, I've been told my intelligence is exaggerated, but I feel certain enough of it to theorize that you'd like to take me to bed." He was clinging to his mind again, the way he had with Silva, because he knew it would help fight down any panic, just so long as he could logic his way through it.

"Good theory, maybe worth testing. But what about the tea?" 

"Unnecessary variable, and not exactly what I had in mind for spilling on my sheets." He retorted, the words rolling from him easily. 

Bond chortled, and Richard found himself relaxing, and sort of falling into the boldness. He knew now how this went. 

He took hold of Bond's tie and pulled him in tight against him, bringing their lips teasingly close. He stayed there, a breath away from a kiss, and waited for Bond to try and close the gap before pulling away. 

He twisted, turned, and began leading him back towards his bedroom by his tie, as though he were on a lead. 

"Well, someone's on a mission." James remarked, neither arguing nor resisting. 

"Yes, and once you've been debriefed, I'll show you the toys available for this particular affair." 

He marched James up to the bed and pushed him back onto it, until he was sitting. James's eyebrow arched, and he pursed his lips a bit, but he didn't say anything—probably a wise choice.

Q smoothed his tie out against his chest, then followed the line of it down. He dropped to his knees and ran tauntingly gentle fingers over the front of Bond's bulge. He looked up at him from between his legs, hand on his thigh the only contact between them. He contrived to look awe filled.  
Apparently it didn't work. It just made Bond snort and grip his chin.  
He stared him down. 

"I promise not to act like you're breakable, as long as you don't try to treat me like the seducer to your wilting flower. Most unbecoming on you, and I'm not him." 

"There was very little seduction, I'll have you know. Attempts at brainwashing perhaps, and some very good arguments for turning coat, but not seduction. Not really." 

"Damn near every word out of his mouth was seduction Q. Don't play coy, or pretend like you were resistant to it. We both know what happened in the end, and I honestly don't care."

"You will care, if only for the small amount of practice it afforded me." 

"You know, there is overmuch small talk happening. I was promised a debriefing." 

Q ran his palm firmly over the tent in Bond's pants, enjoying the small reactions James gave, the hissed intake of breath, the subtle flick of his hips shifting forward. He lowered his head, breathing in the smell through the layers of fabric.

"James, you smell delicious." 

"I'd invite you to taste, but I try not to worry about eventualities." 

Richard huffed out a laugh and began tugging at the fly of Bond's pants, muttering under his breath about fancy slacks and their closures. 

Bond's blunt fingers carded idly through the back of his hair, and he didn't flinch in the least. Didn't roll his head into the touch. Was proud about that. But when he reached for his glasses, Richard stopped him. 

"I'd much rather see you, if it’s all the same." Somehow that made him nervous—not the knowledge of the damage this man could do to him, on every level. Not the fear of making an absolute idiot of himself, of choking or having to call it off again, the ramifications of sleeping with not just the most lauded 00 that MI6 had, but his 00… it was the glasses. 

"Flattery will get you everywhere." Bond remarked in exaggeratedly civilized tones. 

His fingers found the velvet soft heat of Bond's shaft, and he curled them around it gently, just feeling the heft of Bond in his palm. He didn't tarry too long though, afraid it would be mistaken for sentimentality.

He lowered the O of his mouth to the tip, a single swipe of the flat of his tongue lapping up the solitary bead of precum that had gathered in readiness. Slowly, he leaned down, changing the angle of his head while he shifted his legs, to allow him to slide James in as far as he could. 

He waited for the hands in his hair, for the hips to buck and fill him and force him to take more than he could on his own, but all he wrung from Bond was a stuttering breath and an arched eyebrow as if to say, 'Well? Get on with it.'  
He twisted his hand around the base of him, using his fist to cover all of the shaft that he couldn't jam into his own throat. 

He hollowed his cheeks with suction, feeling his glasses slip down his nose. Bond pushed them back up, and his eyes snapped upwards to meet James'. He moaned at that, and Richard felt smug. Human after all. And not so experienced that he wasn't still sensitive to the small things. Good. 

He closed his eyes and pulled back, sinking back down on him very shortly after, pulling groans from the other man by the sheer force of his tongue. It was uncomfortable, still, but not painful, not panic inducing. He pulled his mouth away to lick a single stripe up the underside before planting a trail of kisses that led down to Bond's balls. 

He couldn't imagine he was any good at this at all, really—too clumsy, no rhythm, too slow. But Bond didn't make him stop, didn't pull him up or push him down.  
He just draped a supportive hand across the back of his neck, and let him familiarize himself with his shape.  
When Q finally decided he'd had enough of playing with Bond, had enough of sucking and teasing, and was getting a little self conscious—shouldn't Bond be reacting more? Was it normal just to make small noises, and not to buck or hump or give orders for faster or deeper or more?—he let Bond fall from between his lips with an obscene popping noise, and lunged upwards, meeting him for a kiss. 

James seemed to come back to life, moving again and taking charge, pulling and tugging at Q until he was nearly laid out over Bond's lap, and never releasing his mouth until he was exactly where James wanted him. 

"I can taste myself in you." He murmured, and Richard's mouth fell open, ostensibly to moan, but really it just provided James another opportunity to lick into him, the sound getting lost in the slide of their lips.  
"How do you want this to play out, Richard?" Bond sat up, and started ghosting his fingers down over the rough knitting of Q's jumper, down to just above his waistband where it had rucked up and his dress shirt showed.  
His quick fingers were nestled against warm skin in no time, and Richard struggled to understand the question through the debilitating haze of lust that had creeped behind his eyes.  
"How?" He repeated dumbly, and Bond smirked, his eyes trained on the hand that was moving upwards under his shirt, circling his nipple with his fingers before he spoke again. 

"Do you want to fuck me? Pound all this tension out through my ass? Or do you want me inside of you, hot and hard and filling you up?" His voice was rich and dark and sounded cultured, but the words were crude. It made Richard swallow. 

"I." He started, then stopped to lick his lips. If he wanted to be inside of someone, he could pick up a girl, couldn't he? Maybe with a little more effort than it would take for Bond, but he could do it. But there was really no good way—he didn't know how one might go about—  
"I want you in me. Please." All of the nerves he'd been priding himself on not having suddenly surfaced. He thought Bond might judge him for it, recoil, come to the realization that he was proposing to sleep with this gangly mess of neuroses and snideness, but Bond just smiled.  
"Good." Was all he said, accompanied by a thumb rubbing over Richard's lower lip. Q reached for it with his tongue, rolling his lips to draw it into his mouth, and he held it in place with his teeth, carefully, so that he could suckle it. 

Bond pulled himself free, and Q grabbed hold of his shoulders to hold himself up, while Bond turned them, so that Q was on his back on the bed, only his legs draped across Bond's lap now, the calf of his pants leg contrasting obscenely with Bond's erection. 

Bond diverted his attention to removing Richard's shoes and Q reacted by running admiring fingers across the arm closest to his chest. They slid over the rolled up sleeves, dancing across the warm skin, appreciating the subtle flexes of the muscles below.

Bond's fingers lingered at the bones of his ankles, and then slid up his legs, blunt nails scraping at and catching in the folds of the thin, easily wrinkled fabric.  
When Bond reached up to stroke sure fingers over the tent in his pants, he met Richard's eyes, searching, checking to be sure there were no second thoughts. 

There were second thoughts, of course. Lots of them. 

He moved his hand to hold Bond's in place, pressed pressing his hips up and into the touch to give him the friction he was so craving, and then flicked his fingers over his button, undoing it, and tugged his zipper down perfunctorily. 

It seemed a bit backwards, wearing shirts and ties and in his case a slightly heinous jumper, and having their genitals on display. It's obscene and, he's sure, if he were to step back and think about it, more than slightly ridiculous. He's certain he's flushing, but Bond—of course he doesn't embarrass over things like this. 

Richard squirmed his way out of James's lap and slid out of his pants. He pulled his jumper off and loosened his tie, but James caught him by it, and used the silk strip to pull him in closer.  
He held him in place a short few inches apart from him, his lips ghosting just over Richard's, keeping just out of contact, and he whined, damn him. 

Only then was he released and allowed to finish undressing. Bond watched him, paying no attention to his own quick fingers and their similar work. Richard kept looking down, kept fumbling—kept cursing himself for it, for being so obvious about his nerves. He firmed his jaw and refused to acknowledge it. 

He drew his jumper off over his head, dislodging his glasses and probably turning his hair into a mess in the process, and finally got himself stripped down, just in time for his feelings of inadequacy to well up. 

He was standing naked in front of James Bond. He supposed the feeling was natural. After all, the man whose half lidded gaze was fixed on him was rugged, handsome, the very definition of manliness, all hard edges and defined muscles.  
And he was very much not. 

"I believe I was told I'd be issued supplies?" Bond's calm, commanding tone was no different than the one that floated back to Q through his headpiece while Bond was out on a mission.

It calmed him, took his nerves away. If they could make it through gun fire and explosions, they could maneuver through sex without anything truly terrible happening, and without killing one another.

Walking with his erection bobbing in front of him was borderline ridiculous, but fortunately he didn't have to go very far, and it put his back to Bond and his bed between them. 

He returned from the closet bearing a box, and stopped off at the bedside drawer to seize the lube. 

He thrust both items at Bond, who seated himself as casually as if he were about to order his usual martini, and opened the box. 

He drew out a rope of condoms and sat them on the bed beside him, and then his eyebrows rose and he looked up at Q. 

"When I got back, I thought… well, like I said, it wasn't all that bad." He shrugged heart pounding in his throat when Bond dipped his hand in and drew out the dildo he'd acquired. 

"You've used it? Enjoyed it?" He wasn't mocking him; that was a start. He nodded, and sort of shrugged, then became aware that the combination made him look like some sort of string tangled puppet.

"The angle's off. And it's not quite…" He made a low sound in his throat, remembering the frustrations that had arisen the last time he'd tried. "I'm usually pretty good at things that take batteries, and it isn't as though I haven't—with girls—before. But not on myself." 

"Perhaps I can help you with that, then. On the bed, Quartermaster. I already taught you about guns. Time you learned some of the other tools of my trade." His voice was like suggestive silk, and all Q wanted was to fall into it. 

The idea of Bond being just as talented in the application of sensuality as he was in the application of bullets tightened something inside of him, made his cock lurch a bit. The idea of being the one under his hands, the one receiving those attentions… 

He closed his eyes and crawled into his bed, positioning himself on his stomach with his face turned to the side. 

Bond's hands appeared on the backs of his thighs, and he found himself being lifted and guided umnil he was laid out with his knees folded under him, and his hands on either side of his head, ass in the air and accessible. 

And then he heard the soft buzz that meant Bond had found the vibrating function. The whirring sound sent a shiver down his spine, and then Bond's hand was on his back, stroking and calming.  
His nipples were hard, and the arm of his glasses was pressed into his face. 

He was distracted from the minor discomforts when James brought his fingers down to slide over Richard's asshole, delivering the lube to it before sitting back. 

"Show me how you open yourself up." He said, and it was just like the shooting lesson all over again.  
He edged his legs open a little wider, and rubbed his fingers through the slick, then dipped his middle finger against the muscles, pushing at it, relaxing, then pushing again, until it slid in to the first knuckle. He was already panting, and ready to start moving so that he would be able to add another soon, but Bond stopped him with a gentle hand on his wrist. 

"It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't—here." He guided his hand back out, kissed the back of his knuckles, and then pressed his finger over Richard's opening. But to his surprise, he didn't push in. He stroked, and rubbed and loosened him up gradually. It felt more like a massage than anything else.  
An oddly localized, immensely hot massage. And when his finger did finally make it inside, so much wider than Q's own, he nearly choked. It had been built up and it felt so damn good, and warm—he was so aroused that it almost didn't feel odd at all.

Tiago had fingered him, sure, opened him up with them, but not like this. Not all gentle care—there was no sexuality in the act of opening him up. With him, it had just been something to be done and gotten out of the way. Perfunctory. This—this could have been enough. Had that been the game, he was certain James could make him come just like this. 

He sighed when Bond's fingers left him, but he felt a hand on his, and opened his eyes back up. He tried to looks back over his shoulder, and bond pulled his hand back around.

"There. Now try."  
He turned his face back and pressed it against the bed, lost between embarrassment and being too damn horny to care.  
He pressed his fingers into himself, gasping in air when he could instantly slide two digits in as far as they would go. He whimpered and withdrew them, ready to add a third immediately, but Bond stopped him again, and he all but snarled. 

"Not a fan of slow, are we, Richard?" He teased, and dislodged Q's fingers quickly. He replaced them equally quickly with the blunt, cool head of his toy, and he whimpered when it slid in, the stretch so slight that it just teased, and suddenly there was a pressure on his prostate, as though Bond had some extra sense for locating it. He moaned as the stimulation went sharp—good, but almost too good, white hot and almost painful.  
And then the vibrations started. 

He fisted the sheets near his head and breathed harshly, trying to find words, trying to prove that he was less affected by all of this than he really was. 

It was a losing battle, and he should have realized as much when he found himself arching, raising his ass up higher, bringing it down and trying to fuck himself on the dildo and Bond's hand. 

"Shh, hang on…" James muttered, and his voice was so rough and broken that Q had to clamp his eyes shut against the realization that James was getting off on this too, some how. It couldn't be the view, but the sounds—  
he made sure to moan a little louder the next time a shallow shift of the toy made him buck into it, and Bond's hand twitched. Q smirked at that and pushed himself back and then tilted his hips a bit. 

"Please." It was intended to sound needy, but that was a bit overdone. Needy yes, desperate, hungry, empty—his wonderful brain catalogued the sound for analysis later, when he was capable of worrying about anything other than having Bond inside of him. 

James pulled the toy out and he gaped at how empty he felt, kicked his legs out around the other man and humped down into his bed, until a hand on his bum stilled him.

He felt the warmth of James's chest press over his back, and then a whisper in his ear that ruffled small hairs and sent cool breath skittering across his feverish skin.  
"I'm going to take care of you. Do you trust me?" 

Q thought how funny it was that he ask now. After allowing Q to send him out on missions that could have meant his death. After accepting weapons that could just as easily have been bombs—he'd never know.  
He asked if Q trusted him long after he'd placed his life in Q's hands over and over again.  
So Q didn't even hesitate in his reply. 

"Implicitly."  
James pulled his legs up again, until he felt a bit like a frog, and stroked gentle, almost loving fingers over the fluttering muscles of his hole. 

"Is it okay like this?" He asked, and Richard's mind scrambled to understand, then gave up, and he just moaned.  
"Take that as a yes." Amusement tinged Bond's voice, and he felt lubed latex and heat at his ass. "Take a breath, count to ten, and don't you dare think of England." Bond said, and then pressed inside.

There was the stretch and burn that had been lacking, and a distant, foggy, analytical part of him wondered how much of the burn was James's body heat, and how much was blood rushing to the surface as his skin was pulled in new ways that it wasn't used to. 

He sighed, almost relieved at the feeling of it, and it was unexpectedly intense. Full, god, Bond was wider than Silva had been. 

He bobbed on his knees, and James pressed a hand to the back of his neck., then down, to the middle of his back. 

"Relax. No hurry, nothing to prove." 

"I thought—you knew already-- I'm not a fan of slow."

"I'm not a fan of being a tool for people to hurt themselves with. Is that what you're doing?" Bond would think that, of course. Would assume that he was guilt ridden and trying to work it off in one way or another. That was probably more common among their coworkers than either of them would be comfortable with. But that wasn't what was happening here. 

"No." He controlled his breathing, forced himself to sound as grounded as possible, with a cock in his ass, and when all he wanted to do was move. "No I just—I want to feel good. And I want you to fuck me like you mean it. Silva was—he was so gentle, it was even more torturous than—but you don't have to be. It isn't a battle, just… just fuck me." He'd done particularly well, sweat slicking his forehead as it was, and all he wanted to do was sink back into the comfortable place where everything was feelings and touch and raging lust and hormones.  
"And my pounding your tight little arse will make you feel good?" Bond pressed, rocking his hips in as he spoke, so that his words rode on the tails of an almost-grunt.

"'es." He practically hissed, arching back and into it.  
Bond chuckled a bit breathlessly and pulled Richard back, sliding his front along the bed, until it was bond sitting on his legs, and Q in his lap, pressed forward and down, prone as though in worship. 

He sat up, and leaned back into Bond, his hands moving to just above his knees and his legs raising and lowering him onto James's dick.

This was good, this was so wonderful, he could control it and fuck himself at his own speed and it was perfect—  
And then Bond sank his teeth into Q's neck, making him arch and throw his head back, until it rested on Bond's shoulder. He didn't stop moving, though it was no longer so much of a rise and fall as it was a rolling undulation. 

Again, he was forced to wonder when he'd become such a beast, so moved to just the base part of his body's wants and needs.  
And then he couldn't wonder anything at all, because Bond was standing, lifting him, and they moved two, three steps, and then he found himself pushed chest first against the wall. 

His forearms caught him, kept him from smashing his face into the plaster, though his glasses dug into his skin and he had begun panting.  
James's breathing was harsh, too, and in his ear, but familiar—he'd heard this pattern a hundred times, when he was running, or fighting, or fucking on the job. 

And now he was fucking the job, and thank god, because he hadn't realized how much he needed this. Between the thrusts and the shocks of pleasure from stimulating his everything, he worried what it would be like from now on. Would he be reduced to picking up anonymous men in clubs for a quick go, just to scratch this itch? Was this really all he had needed—more of this? He could live with that, right? And Bond, he'd slept with so many people, it was probably par for the course for him to work with them afterwards, but could he?

His moans took on a slightly more desperate tone, and Bond reached around to fist him as he went, mistaking his tension for his being close to finishing. 

"Me too." Bond panted, and Richard squirmed. He hadn't been close, but the added pulls on his dick were breaking his mind away from where he'd been, taking away his ability to think, and he just needed—needed—  
Bond stiffened and stilled behind him, and he knew he must have come. Damn. 

He batted at Bond's hand, trying to move away from the wall so that he could jerk himself to completion, but Bond man handled him back to the bed, on his back this time.  
He slid off the condom, and stared down at Richard, seemingly dispassionately, but really he was just recovering. Q could see the muscles in his thighs quivering and he reached again for his cock with the intent of getting off to the sight, but he found himself stopped, and Bond knocked his legs apart with his thighs. 

He dropped to his knees and got his mouth on Richard, and it wasn't long after that before Richard discovered that James wasn't exaggerating his expertise.  
The roof of his mouth was smooth and wonderfully warm, his tongue and throat, and then he… hummed or… something and it was—Q didn't even stand a chance of warning him. He spilled into James's mouth, and Bond swallowed it down like it was water or his weak martini. 

He crawled up the length of Richard's body and kissed him, the sour bitter taste of his spunk tinting the kiss.

He slid back inside, still hard enough that it just took two fingers to press him in. And even with his cum coating Richard's hole and easing the slide, Richard couldn't help but wince for Bond's sake—He was so sensitive after coming, after the glow started fading, that he couldn't imagine finding pleasure in continued stimulation. He began to wonder if perhaps it was for his benefit, though he'd already reached his completion and wasn't quite ready for another round. But James sheathed himself and then held still, draping his body over Q's. He let out a long sigh, and Q felt like that exhale was Bond's real release. 

"Thank you, Q." Bond muttered, and they lay for a while, until Bond slid out of him with one final sigh and a kiss pressed to the top of Q's head. He lay beside him, not touching, but not far from it, and dropped quickly off to sleep. Q followed soon after, even his racing mind not enough to keep him from falling prey to the sudden relief and exhaustion that followed sleeping with James Bond. 

When he awoke, he stretched out.

"Hell of a way to get rid of workplace tensions." Q muttered.  
From the snort that came from beside him, he assumed Bond agreed.

Six.  
On the fifth mission, Bond didn't come back. 

They lose communication when he turns off his piece as he follows a slinky gowned, posh looking woman into a hotel.  
Q followed him through the lobby with the hotel's own security cameras, then watched as they walked down the hall and went in the room. 

Two hours later, she came to the door, clutching a sheet and looking rumpled, her head turning back and forth, looking for some one, but no one was in sight. Bond had never left. The traffic light from the side of the hotel that her suite's balcony looked out on didn't show any foot traffic that could have been Bond, if he had somehow rappelled from the twelfth floor. Which left the roofs, which normally wouldn't be a problem, except that Q's trackers had all been disabled. 

EMP, perhaps, if someone was very smart. Brute force, if they weren't. 

And if playing "where is Bond" wasn't enough, M had a problem with his computer. 

Q knew they weren't worrying just yet. After all, 007 tended to do this—to sleep with someone and then go missing for a day or two. Q wondered if maybe this was Bond doing, once again, what he'd accused Q of doing—using sex as a means of punishing himself. 

Though, Q imagined, having sex with him was likely much more torturous than sleeping with a beautiful and emotionally distant or numb woman. At least she wouldn't feel a tiny clench of jealousy in her gut if she knew of Q's existence. 

At least she wouldn't be sitting here on M's computer, worrying that something may have happened—imagining Bond at the mercy of the posh woman's imaginary latex thigh highs and kink whip. 

He wondered if Bond would even mind, if that were the case.

But when he returned to his desk, he knew with a sinking feeling that that wasn't the case. Not even a little bit.  
His desktop screen had gone dark, and a single line of words had appeared. 

>Coffee, Clever boy?

A blinking cursor icon was displayed below it, and he knew instantly who was behind it. A solid knot of dread formed in the pit of his stomach, and he knew where Bond was. Or at least, why he hadn't come back.

Where?

He hit enter quickly, looking around to see if anyone was watching him.

The black screen cleared, though, and was replaced with a Google maps page, with an address pinned and labeled "Twenty minutes".  
The location details just said "Come alone. No toys."  
Then the computer shut itself down. 

He didn't bother clearing it with anyone—this was Silva, this was his fight, he knew how he worked, and if MI6 knew, they would insist on sending him with arms, and people, and bugs, and Silva wasn't stupid. They would underestimate him, he'd be offended, and Bond would pay for it. 

So he walked out in a hurry, ignoring everyone, and sure he wouldn't be followed. As far as anyone else knew, it was a perfectly ordinary day. Maybe they were telling themselves he'd left the stove on, or had run out of Earl Grey in the breakroom. 

The second he was outside, he consulted the map and went running. 

Seventeen minutes. It was just a two or so blocks away, and he knew traffic patterns this time of day. He would make it faster on foot.  
He wasn't the most physically fit, but he couldn't let himself stop running just because he was having a hard time breathing. 

He reached the shop and checked his phone just as the numbers changed. On time down to the second. He walked inside, on the lookout for the familiar slick of overly blonde hair, and when he didn't see it, his stomach dropped.  
"Richard." The voice sang out. "Over here." He turned and Silva stood, looking happy to see him, as though this were nothing but a meeting between friends, long in the coming.  
He opened his arms and Q, well aware of the attention of people around them—of course he'd drawn attention, like an idiot novice, huffing for breath and looking panicked—he had no choice but to walk up and hug Silva, though he made sure it was brief and he gave him a glare from up close that would curdle milk. 

Silva's hair was darker, shorter, though not by much. His sense of style was much the same, and his voice hadn't changed, the same dark silky croon.

"Sorry I'm late." The words stung him to say, but not nearly as much as his lungs had stung on the way over. "I was afraid I might miss you." 

"Ah, no, of course not! I would have waited. Here, sit down. I'll get you a tea." 

Glad the charade was over, and glad to see that the rest of the shop's attentions had shifted back to their own business, he sat down in the chair Silva had vacated, so that he could watch the man. 

And with good reason, too—he didn't miss how his hands dipped in his pocket, how he wiped his finger around the rim of the cup when he got it. 

"Earl Grey, yes?" Silva asked, handing it over, and Q gave him a tight smile and a nod as he seated himself. He didn't complain about the switch of seats, even though it put his back to the door. 

"Thank you." His breathing and pulse were almost down to normal, though he knew he was still in hot water, here. He pointedly wiped the rim of the cup, making Silva smile, and then sat it on the table before him, not planning on drinking it, regardless. 

"Where is he?" He asked, leaning forward earnestly. 

Silva frowned, then leaned back in his chair, his eyes closing as he pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. His eyes opened again and he exhaled.  
"No, Richard, and we were doing so well. Next, we ask how each other have been, what we've been up to."

"You shouldn't be alive. When we couldn't find the body, I thought maybe one of your men survived and took you for sentimental reasons. Or necrophiliac ones. How did you escape?"

"I've taken up a new hobby. Bond turned me on to it, you know. Good for the soul, resurrection. You ought to try it some day."

"Yes, I'm sure. I'll put it on my to do list. Now. Where. Is. My. Agent." The words were furious, and terrified, bitten out. Tiago had—no, Raoul—Silva had not treated him all that badly, and his line of thinking wasn't hard to understand, and that was terrifying. He didn't relish the idea of spending any more time with him than he already had, and this had gone on quite long enough, while who knew what sort of situation Bond was in.

"I've been missing your cleverness, Richard. I'll be in touch."  
"No!" The outburst was too loud, drawing attention again, and he gritted his teeth and lowered his voice, though the look he was giving Silva didn't waver. 

"I don't care if you think you've found the secret to coming back to life. I will find you, I will get him away from you, and then I will kill you." 

"Is that for you, or for him, Richard? I look forward to the challenge. And, somehow, I rather think you'll change your mind." He stood, and put a heavy hand on his shoulder.  
"I'll be in touch." 

He sounded so terribly tired, but Q didn't really care. He had half a mind to attack him, witnesses be damned, protocols too, but he knew if he did, he would lose the chance he had of finding 007's whereabouts. 

"It was good seeing you, Richard." Silva exclaimed, his voice warm and jovial again, and then the door closed behind him. 

Q watched him for as long as he could through the window out front, and then he began the walk back to MI6. And as though things weren't bleak enough, whatever higher being there may be decided to up and piss on him. 

When he made it back to his desk, he was wet and shaking, though whether from cold or upset, he couldn't say. He paused only long enough to grab his computer, and then went immediately to M's office, more than ready to admit that he was out of his league on this one. 

He didn't wait or knock, prompting Moneypenny to follow him in, obviously both surprised and concerned. 

Tanner was just having M initial on a few lines—both looked up when Q entered, neither seeming surprised to see him or the state he was in, but then, that was their job. 

"Raoul Silva—Tiago Rodriguez—is alive." He informed them as calmly as he was able. "He has double-oh-seven."

"You have proof?" Tanner asked, looking apologetic when M cast a mild glance up at him. 

"I've just seen him. Spoken to him." Tanner and M traded a look, and Eve placed a hand on his shoulder and took his computer from him. The shaking had become so bad he might have dropped it. He flashed her a grateful look, then turned back to his superiors. 

"I can find him. Give me a little time, I know Silva, he's going to try and challenge me, and we'll be able to track him." 

"You left the premises to go rendezvous with a known terrorist—on who, last time you saw him, was holding you hostage, I might add—on your own, without back up or equipment. Your partner is missing, after you sent him on a mission, and lost him, and you want us to put you in charge of a crew of more agents to fix things? Not to mention that the last time we had Silva in custody, it was your cock up that let him escape in the first place. Does that seem to accurately summarize the situation, Mister Dillinger?" M had never called him that before—he'd been Q to him for as long as he'd known the man.

He gaped.

"Are you—did you just fire me?" 

"You're on suspension, until such a time as a formal investigation can be mounted. I'm sorry, Q. It's just built up to be too much. Miss Moneypenny?"

She stepped forward, still clutching the laptop, obviously unsure what was being asked of her.  
"Sir?" She answered, the clipped tone indicating she wasn't pleased, but the lack of argument enough proof of her obedience. 

"Have a car take you and Mr. Dillinger back to his. I'd like you to physically monitor him, make sure he doesn't leave your sight and report any contact that Silva may make with him."

"Sir." She still sounded angry, maybe angrier than before, and M rolled his eyes. 

"For God's sake we're going to get Bond back. Just… I need you to cooperate, understand?" 

"Sir." This time Q and Eve chorused it, then traded a look and Q turned, heading for the door. 

"Eve. Not out of your sight, do I make myself clear?" 

"Perfectly. Sir." She assured him, then spun, her heels clacking as she followed Q back down into the labs to reclaim his parka. 

He wrapped himself in it, feeling oddly symbolic- theoretically he should be warm and safe feeling, but inside he was soggy, heavy, and uncomfortable.  
They stood together, shoulders nearly touching, and waited for a car. 

"M thinks Silva intends to kidnap me again, doesn't he?" 

"M is uncomfortable with the idea of Bond alone in Silva's grasp. The both of you under his control would spell out a more certain threat than anything else that could be given us. I think he wants to be sure you aren't put in harm's way."

"They aren't going to be able to find him without me. Whatever he does—it's going to be personal." 

Eve climbed in first, still holding his laptop hostage, and he followed, letting the driver close the door behind them and checking the rearview mirror carefully to be sure it was no one he recognized as working for Silva. 

Eve gave the man his address from memory and addressed him by his first name, Hector, which made Richard relax ever so slightly. At least she knew him. It wasn't a vouch for their safety, but it would have to do for now. 

And like Bond had said, he'd taken to carrying more dangerous things than the guns he was supposed to be practicing with, on his person. 

They reached his flat without a hitch, though, and he let them in, then proceeded to lock down every layer of security that he'd built in. 

"I hope you have food in the cupboards—unlike you, I have curves to maintain, and I can't imagine you wanting to unlock all that for a curry delivery boy." She was calmly sardonic, and it made his nerves settle. She sounded like Bond, just for a moment. 

"You'll find I keep the place well stocked. I've always worried one of the Agents I supplied would end up here for safe keeping—though, somehow, I always thought it would be me watching over them, and not the other way around."

There was a touch of misery in his voice, and he had to stop himself apologising. 

"Why don't you set up your computer, do something to entertain yourself. I'll see if I can't fashion something palatable out of your fridge."

"I suppose you'll want me at the kitchen table, like a boy with his homework? You do realize it's likely that Silva will contact me, yes?"

"And I will be right here when he does, making sausage." They were both keeping their tones as even as possible, but it was Moneypenny who folded first.  
"Look, I know you don't like it. Neither do I. But we both know there must be some reason."

"And I'm just to accept that and figure on waiting to hear that Silva's killed one of our best agents, because I was told I couldn't go out to play?"

"Do you really think he would? Kill Bond, I mean. I was under the impression he wanted him too much." Her arms were folded, but she appeared relaxed. Q wished now that he'd spent more time around her, learned to read her a little better before being placed into her custody. No help for it now, though.

"If he can't keep him by his side, he'll kill him. He'd rather have him dead than working against him. He respects him too much for that." He pressed the power button and waited for his machine to start. 

She snorted. 

"Funny way of showing his respect." He eyes and voice softened, though. "And you know that from experience, don't you? He respects you that way, too." 

"Bond and I represent the two halves of Silva's skill sets. We're each the match for him in our fields. And he's vain." The tone of his voice made it clear the discussion was closed. Eve stared at him for a moment longer, considering, and he logged into his account. She turned away, but looked back quickly when, instead of fully booting up, it slipped into what appeared to be a command prompt screen. 

The cursor flashed at him for just a moment before someone began typing remotely.

>Disregard Spaces

The cursor dropped down two lines, and paused for a moment, before it began typing in earnest. 

||ln14ch35-ln11ch6-ln18ch26-ln14ch42-ln11ch12||  
||ln13ch19-ln14ch42||  
||ln3ch21-ln13ch19-ln9ch3-ln25ch5||  
||ln1ch4-ln18ch26-ln14ch42-ln1ch4||

"What the hell is that?" Moneypenny snapped, her phone already out.

"It's no coding language—must be a cipher of some sort. And some of the individual codes repeat… one, two, three, four, five, six, four, seven, six, eight, nine, ten, three, four, ten." He opened up an empty text file and quickly copied the numbers across, beginning to test ideas as to what it could mean.

"Why would he send it to you if it means nothing to you?" 

"There must be some significance to the code—maybe something he used while working for MI6?"

"I've sent it to Q branch for analysis."

"The lettering pattern coincides with the phrase he kept sending to the previous M—Think on your sins. I… don't know how that is supposed to apply to me. I've never wronged him in such a way that he should feel compelled to remind me of any such sins." He was jittery, nervous and wired, the same way he got whenever he had a new system to hack or a new secret to unlock.

"Did you sleep with Bond?"

That surprised him so much that his fingers missed their marks, and an unintelligible mess appeared on the screen. 

"I- what?" 

"M's sin was betrayal. If you slept with him, and then with someone else… could it be he feels you betrayed him? And since Bond is his captive, I just thought—" 

He turned away from her, not answering, and with shaking hands he typed into the command screen,

Think on your sins

He'd barely finished typing it when a video popped up. 

Silva's face, in the foreground. James, chained and hanging there, his eyes closed and apparently unconscious, visible behind him. 

"No, no, you are trying to be too clever, Richard. I miss your cleverness, but you're wrong. Think on it. Get back to me. And then we'll discuss James. And, you should keep in mind that the longer you take to find the answer, the more time I will have to amuse myself with him." Silva offered them both a beatific grin.  
"Richard. Eve. Good luck." He saluted cockily, and the video ended. 

They turned to stare at each other, until the smell of burning sausage got to be too much, and Eve turned off the burner and moved the frying pan over. 

She rubbed her lips when she turned back to Q. 

"Well. Now what?" She asked. 

And for once, he didn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> antiheroical.tumblr.com has isolated the location of Silva's newest hideout. Congrats!
> 
> EDIT: Turns out some folks may be having trouble with viewing Q's code. For those who are and want to see it anyway, I took screenshots.  
> Sequentially: 
> 
> http://i.imgur.com/aW2G6.png  
> http://i.imgur.com/I6Z5U.png  
> http://i.imgur.com/gSsGy.png


	3. Act Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of the Clever Boy story-- complete with the solution! 
> 
> Q solves the cipher and runs off to save the day!
> 
> Well, it sounded like a good idea at the time.

One. 

They ordered out.

Neither of them had the attention to give to cooking now, and they would have laughed when Q’s security systems actually did threaten to blind the curry deliver boy, if the situation wasn’t so tense. 

It took Q an extra eight seconds to disarm the security, because his hands were shaky and his mind elsewhere, but no one was harmed, fortunately, and the delivery boy got a significant tip for his troubles, and seemed pretty pleased about it, so Q struck that from his list of things to worry about, and went back to the problem at hand.

M was blowing up their phones-- not literally, thank goodness, though Q was relatively sure that that was an option with Eve’s at least-- but he was demanding answers that neither of them had. 

Q tried to trace the origin of Silva’s remote access session, but he’d left it connected, and Q couldn’t close the connection, so when he tried using any of his isolation programs, Silva just closed them. 

It was infuriating, and when he switched from one computer to the next, it happened there, too. 

And he had to tell M that he had not only no idea where Silva was, where he was holding one of their best agents, but also that he had somehow infiltrated every computer Q touched.   
He even tried using Moneypenny’s tablet, only to have Silva’s text screen pop up with the condescending message of ‘tsk tsk’.

The curry sat beside him, largely untouched, as he squirmed and rearranged himself while pursuing every lead he could imagine.   
He tried working complicated algorithms to attempt turning the cipher that Silva had sent into some form of geological locators-- longitude and latitude, sea level, anything. Everything. 

He found nothing. 

Sometime around two in the morning, windows stopped closing, the screens stopped popping up. His phone had been silent for hours, and Eve had nodded off over who knew what number cup of coffee. 

He desperately wanted nothing more than to turn his mind off, but he’d never been good at that without some form of external stimuli.   
He considered running a bath, but wasn’t really prepared to test how far Eve intended to hold to the letter of her instructions. 

Movies and television were out, too-- he was so agitated, he could only imagine that yet another instance of Hollywood Hacking or people behaving stupidly would send him into a state of further annoyance. Besides, the back of his brain would still be at work. 

He supposed he could go out and try and find a one nighter, but first, if that truly was what had pulled Silva’s chains, then he could hardly risk it, second, again the Eve problem, and third, he wasn’t really in that sort of mood. He needed to feel like he was making progress on something. Maybe it would clear his mind.   
He opened up the text file that contained his security code-- the one he’d worked on while on Silva’s island. 

He scrolled to the bottom and sighed, cursing the blinker while he tried to switch gears.  
He tapped the enter button for the next line and wondered how long it was. He hadn’t actually had a chance to keep track of such things, working on a type writer. Paged back up to nearly the top when one thing caught his eye.   
It was a command to send information to a point in the code that he hadn’t written yet.   
ln- line.   
with shaking hands, he opened up the tools and selected word count, and there it was- characters.   
Lines and characters of a file. What file, though? His? Bond’s? the late M’s? Tiago’s? Silva’s?  
On a whim, he looked for the first few letters in this file, that coincided with the lines and characters of Silva’s cipher.   
It made sense, after all-- something he would have that they wouldn’t even think of. 

L. E. A. R. N.-- that was a word, a viable word even.   
O.R.  
Learn what? He almost snarled at the screen, and Eve shifted in her sleep. He shot an annoyed glance in her direction.   
H.O.S.T.  
What? Maybe-- maybe he’d been wrong. It could be anything. Any book,   
Then again, he did have a few letters left.  
B.A.R.B.

Learn or host barb?  
…  
Like the porcupine. What was it Silva had told him?  
About animals, about the island...   
The one from his childhood, the one that was his grandmother’s island.

He pulled up the MI6’s file on Tiago Rodriguez, the one he’d read back before the incident at Skyfall... the one he’d refused to read since he’d come home.

He pulled up the file on Skyfall-- found the bit where he told Bond that you could walk across the island in an hour-- with the average person’s walking speed sitting at around 8.5 kph, he could guess about how large the island was. He opened up the MI6 Geographical surveys, and punched in the guidelines. 

“Who’s Barb? Does Bond have an Aunt or something that I don’t know about?” 

He jumped, startled. He’d been so excited, had gotten so involved with his discoveries, that he hadn’t heard Moneypenny stirring.   
She was holding up his notebook, which had fallen to the floor.   
“I wouldn’t know. James is hardly forthcoming about his personal life. No, Tiago-- Silva, excuse me-- once told me about how he’d learned to charm animals on his grandmother’s private island which I have just now isolated to belonging in the Berlengas Archipelago, off the coast of Portugal.” 

His phone rang, and he picked it up without thinking, sure it was M. 

“Very good, Richard, very good. It took you a bit to understand.” His eyes must have gone wide, because Eve mothed ‘what is he saying’ at him. He tried to take it in stride, though-- if MI6 had his flat bugged, there was no reason Silva shouldn’t try and hack the feeds, and, it appeared, he succeeded.  
He carefully transferred the call to speaker phone. 

“Yes, well, glad you’re pleased. What is the next step? If I call now, we can have a team of agents swarming down on you before night fall.” He glanced at Moneypenny to be sure she had her phone ready to follow through with the threat, if need be.

“Oh no, I think you both know better than that. Hello Eve, a pleasure. No. I want you to come to me. The both of you, I will give you good food, we will drink good wine, and we will discuss the transfer of your employment.”   
Eve made a choking noise like she wanted to say something, but Silva pressed on, refusing to be interrupted.

“When my grandomother was dying, she asked me to make sure that no one lived on her island ever again. She was a selfish woman, with grand dreams of immortality. But she was on her death bed and I promised her. I never intended to keep that promise-- but I just may, if you cross me. The Island is rigged with explosives. If I see one stranger, one unexpected agent, I will take my favorite men and leave the charming mister Bond, along with whomever you send, to perish in the flames. We understand one another, do we not?” 

“Absolutely.” He said, watching as Eve got control of her widened eyes and schooled her face into a perfect mask once again. 

“Good bye, Richard-- Eve; I’ll be expecting you.”

The line went dead, and neither one of them seemed in a hurry to break the ensuing silence.

“No.” Eve spoke suddenly into the silence, and Q frowned, one eyebrow raising. 

“No, we can’t do this. We can’t-- I am under orders from M himself--” She was bristling with self righteousness, and he could hear it mounting as she spoke. He decided to curtail it before she could become more set in that tone for the discussion, because he knew once she set her mind on it, he wouldn’t be able to budge her.

“Not to let me out of your sight. That’s to say nothing about where your sight may be, however.”

“Did you not hear him say that he was set to blow the place up?”

Q shrugged and turned back to his screen to begin researching.  
“If you don’t wish to go, that is your prerogative, however, I am going, and if I have to physically restrain you to do so I will.”

“And how are you planning to do that?” She asked, canting her hips and folding her ams, every line of her echoing a pure challenge. 

“Restrain you? Need I remind you whose home you are in, and what my specialties are? I have security and restraints in place that I can guarantee not even MI6 knows about.” 

“I meant how are you planning on getting there?” She seemed unimpressed by his threats, and was instead tapping at the screen of her mobile. 

“Oh. By boat I suppose-- I hadn’t given it much thought. Or a boat to France and the rest by car-- whatever is quickest.” He opened up a travel app within MI6, then thought better of it and signed out of their intranet. He didn’t need them questioning, not now that he was so close to getting Bond out of there--

“Neither one of those is quick enough.” Eve told him, in that frank, no nonsense way that she had when she made her mind up about things. 

“Well it’s just going to have to do.” He all but snapped at her. 

“No, it isn’t. If you try, they’ll find you and stop you before you ever make it there. You know that as well as I do. Anything you do, it has to be fast and a no stops sort of affair.” 

“That sounds wonderful, but we both know I can’t do that. You’re proposing I fly. I was drugged the last time that happened, and I can’t afford to do the same this time.” 

“Well that’s just too bad. Suck it up. I called in a favor and we leave in two hours. Bond has already died once because of me, I can’t let that happen a second time.”  
“Two hours?” He was starting to shake, muscles tensing. 

“Pack up, get us some supplies from your private armory, I know you must have one. We need to convert some cash. And then--” He cut her off with a raised hand.

“I’d rather not think of the ‘and then’, if it’s all the same, or I won’t be able to do the before then bits.” He was already tapping away at the keys, shutting everything down. Once the screen had gone dark, he turned in his seat to look at her. 

“Well. Shall we?”

Eve managed to find them an all night money exchanger-- he didn’t ask why it existed, merely was grateful. They converted 8.5k Pounds to nearly 11k Euros, and just hoped that would be enough-- though, if his panic this time was anything like last time, he was actually more worried that he, at least, wouldn’t make it to their landing point.   
Had he been a better, he’d have placed money on cardiac arrest, or broken neck from his thrashing. 

He tried bringing it up to Eve, just in case he did survive and could make some money off of the fact, maybe to put towards the counselling he’d probably need to invest in once this was finished, but she just smacked him on the back of the head and told him to focus, and led him back to his flat.

He folded his computer cords into a leather carrying bag, and slung it over the back of his chair.   
He pulled five innocuous black and silver cases from the vault in his front hall coat closet, and slid them in after the cords. 

“Eve, let’s have a coffee.” He suggested, tipping his head at the door. She seemed to cotton on that he was up to something and willingly followed him downstairs and down the block to the little tea shop he liked to frequent, which was just opening. 

Hot beverages acquired, they settled in at a table at the back, furthest from the door and around the corner from the counter, where no one would see. 

He pulled the boxes out one by one and slid them gently onto the table, the leather outers making a silky sliding noise against the high polish of the formica.

 

“I knew you must have some sort of stash. Good stuff?” she probed, reaching forward to take up the box closest to her. He swatted her hand.

“This is not only good stuff, they’re my stuff-- not paid for by anyone but me, not worked on or touched by anyone else. And damn near irreplaceable. They are all prototypes, save these.” He patted the two identical boxes on the table. 

“So knowing we’re walking into what can only be a trap, is it really wise to take prototypes with us? I don’t expect they will make it beyond the ferry to the island.”

He gave her a small, tight lipped smile. 

“They will if they don’t look like weapons.” He informed her, and opened the biggest box to reveal... a small orange beaded necklace on silver fasteners. 

“It’s pretty, but what does it do?” She asked, obviously wary of touching it for fear it might explode or poison her or some such thing. 

He plucked the necklace from where it rested on the smooth velvet. He held up the amulet at the center of the chain and showed her a tiny hairline separation in the detailing around the framework that cradled the citrine drop. 

“Pressing this inwards activates a radio. There’s no flashing, no beeping, no outward sign that it is broadcasting, but it’s going to be our backup if all else falls through. It’s set to spring alerts and detailed tracking directions to MI6 directly.”

“Handy. And obviously not designed for a man.” Eve said, though there was more than a tiny bit of a question in her voice. 

“We have female Agents too, and besides-- it’s expensive looking enough that it would work as a gift to someone one of our male agents wanted to follow or find later.” He handed it to her, and watched with scrutinizing eyes while she unhooked the latch and put it on.   
“None of which has anything to do with how well the citrine compliments your skin tone, however.” He added. 

She snorted.   
“You have been spending too much time around Bond.”

His smile faded a bit, and he went back to business, interrupting what was likely an apology to open another box. 

“Wrist watch stun gun. This one is for me-- because you can’t have all the toys.” He strapped it round his wrist as he spoke, fumbling a little with the buckle until Eve gave him a very pointed look and finished the job for him. 

“Alright. What else?”

“This...” he said, handing her the box, but leaving it closed, “is a Nighthawk Custom Tee Three ACP pistol. I know Walthers are a tradition at MI6, but I can appreciate a good weapon when I see it, and these are beautiful. Again, calibrated to your hand and now mine and Bond’s as well, so only one of the three of us can fire it.” He shrugged. “You may lose it. If you don’t, it will serve you well. And it’s flashy enough that maybe Silva won’t look beyond it.”

“Thanks.” She told him, slipping it into her purse for now, to be strapped on before they left for good. “And those?”

He opened one of the two remaining boxes to reveal what appeared to be a fountain pen. 

“You made a pen mightier than a sword, didn’t you? And exactly for that reason.” She challenged, and he shrugged, her playful barbing not quite meshing with the welling sense of dread he felt. 

They were leaving soon, but for now he needed to focus on this. 

“These are auto injector pens. I’ve put in an undiluted, concentrated, carefully calculated dosage of succinylcholine. It will cause paralysis to anyone you inject with it, but it’s got a safety so that it will be difficult to accidentally set it off. You twist the tip so that the pen nib recedes and the needle comes out, then pierce the skin of the recipient with the needle-- neck or wrist is preferable, but most anywhere will work-- hold down the clip that goes on your pocket, and then click the end button. After that you have about half an hour to get out of there. I have one for you and one for me.” He handed her the pen, and slipped the boxes back into his bag.

“Right. Are we settled, then? Should I call for our ride?’ She looked apprehensive, as though she thought he was going to back out now, leave her to do it on her own, because of the mode of transport. 

He was tempted.

“Moneypenny, why are you doing all this?” He asked, the words more sudden and sharp than intended, but too late to take back now. 

She stared at him for a moment, and when she spoke, it was level and calm, and brimming with conviction.  
“I’ve been responsible for James Bond’s death once. There was nothing I could do, and I regretted it. That isn’t going to be the case again.”

He nodded, the motion a simple jerk of his head, and he stood. 

“Call for the car. I’m going to use the restroom.”

She looked divided, probably wondering if she should follow him. He scoffed.   
It wasn’t as though he was going to shimmy out the high up, incredibly narrow windows of the mens’ lav.   
Though he did glance longingly at them for a long moment before filling his hands with water and clapping them to his face.   
He leaned in close to the over sink mirror, taking in his reflection, letting his fingers slide down to grip at the edges of the porcelain, ignoring how his skin and the material under his fingers seemed equally clammy and inhuman. 

“I can do this.” He told himself in a hushed whisper, even and his hands tightened and his knuckles went white, bespeaking his lie. But no one needed to know that. 

He toyed with fetching another dosage pen, before they left. One with a much weaker drug, or even just a lower dosage. Some form of relaxant. Or something to drop him out of the realm of consciousness. But he couldn’t leave Eve to carry him on and off the plane, to protect him as well as herself while he was out and useless. 

And he couldn’t risk it blunting his mind while he was facing off against Silva. 

He would just have to do as Eve had said, and suck it up. 

He patted his face dry with the brown paper towels from the dispenser, pulled his glasses down from their perch atop his head, and ran his fingers backwards through the mess that was his hair. 

One last check in the mirror, and he felt ready to face the world at large-- or at least Moneypenny’s watchful eye. 

“I began to think you’d fallen in.” She told him, and he just shook his head. “Well good, because the car is here. Shall we?” She took firm hold of his upper arm, probably looking like nothing more than a possessive girlfriend, but really she was all but dragging him out the door, not giving him the option for a last minute change of heart. 

He couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed that she thought so little of him, or grateful, because she was stopping him from being exactly the coward they were both worried he was. 

He tried to focus on that on the drive to the private airport, rather than thinking about Silva, or what he was doing to Bond. Though he would have preferred even those thoughts, dark and bleak as they were, to the thought of what he was about to do. 

The car stopped on tarmac in front of another small aircraft, not dissimilar, from what he knew of them, to the one that Bond had saved him from. 

His heart was shuddering out a thunderous echo that he could feel in his ears, and his throat felt tight and his mouth dry, even before they stepped out of the car. 

He undid his seatbelt and tipped his head back, blowing air out between pursed lips. He scrunched his eyes closed and focused on remembering how to breathe.

 

“Q?” Eve’s voice broke through his attempts at achieving a calm. She sounded apologetic.   
“A friend at work just tipped me off. MI6 is on its way here. We need to leave.”

He grabbed his bag and shoved himself out the door of the car, stumbling a bit as he gained his feet. His eyes lit on the foot of the staircase they had to climb, and he refused to look up to the top of it.

He was shaking, trembling, as though he was terribly cold.

“Q? Are you alright?” She was concerned, and right behind him. 

He shook his head and managed to get the rest of the way inside the airplane, his breath coming out panicked and panting, but still coming, at least.   
He dropped himself into a seat and strapped in, then allowed the shakes to consume him, to roll over him. His muscles spasmed and he hated it, but he didn’t think he could stop now until it had run its course. 

And they weren’t even off the ground yet. 

He kept his eyes squeezed tightly closed, afraid to see Moneypenny’s reaction.   
Disgust, he was sure. Disappointment. Fear that, when he became needed, he wouldn’t be any good.   
It was a legitimate fear. One he was having a hard time defending himself against, even to himself.   
He draped a shaking hand over his closed eyes, the plastic of his glasses frames cutting into the soft meat of his palm in a hard line. 

There was a grinding noise and a disproportionately tiny click as the door was closed and locked. He heard Eve settling in to the seat across from him. He was going to ask her how long they had, how long the flight was going to be, and then the hum of the engines drown out every human thought in his head.   
They began to roll forward and his hands found and dug into the armrests hard enough that he spared a brief second worrying about whether the pressure he was exerting was enough to break his own fingers. He needed those.

The moment he felt them lose touch with the ground, a whimper tore itself free, and he clapped a hand over his own mouth to stop any more from following suit.   
Unfortunately, that also pressed the side of his fingers against his nose and made his mouth close-- making his hyperventilating difficult. 

Eve must have crept up while he was having a hard time of it-- she pulled his hand away and he gasped, his eyes coming open at the same time as his mouth. 

“Q. Q, I need you to listen to me now. Q.” She paused, then, “Richard.” He jerked and attempted to curl in on himself but the belt prevented him. He found himself straining against it.

There was an odd rushing noise in his ears, trying to drown her out, trying to make him scream, trying to get him to stop this foolishness and get down where he belonged.

“Richard, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself!” Moneypenny was worried now, her voice gone sharp with concern. He snapped his head to face her, and his eyes were wild, his pupils down to the tiniest pinpricks and the whites showing all the way around. They banked a bit, and his gaze lurched to the window.

She took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.  
“Hey, here-- it’s okay. Look, look, you know me. You know I won’t let something happen to you, yeah?”

He stared, but slowly, slowly his pulse began to slow, his breathing evened out. 

“There you go. Come on now.” She was talking as though to a spooked animal. 

“I think I’m going to be sick.” He told her, his voice strained.   
She drew back, clearly afraid he meant on her, then stood and brought him what looked like a hotel ice bucket. 

“Hang on to this then, and we’ll deal with it as we need to.” He clutched it to him, tucking it against his chest and under his chin. 

“I’m so sorry.” He told her, feeling miserable now, mixed in with his fear. 

“Don’t. Chin up, head up, powder dry. We’re doing this for a reason, remember? So tell me what I should be expecting here-- I don’t like going into this blind.” She was trying to distract him, and he registered that, but it was a damn good distraction-- recalling him to his duty, giving him a reason to back down from the edge of his panic.

He took a deep breath, and started filling her in. 

Two.

When the plane touched down, Q was out of his seat nearly faster than he knew what was going on. The moment the door opened and the steps were pulled up, he was down and standing on his own two feet. 

If his muscles weren’t aching from three hours of being tensed beyond belief, he’d have stooped and kissed the ground. 

For the time being though, he contented himself with rocking from his heels to his toes, stretching the muscles in his calves while he waited for Eve to come out. She thanked their pilot, who just waved a little too cheerfully at Q, and then there she was. 

“Where are we?” he asked as she drew even with him, and she smiled grimly.   
“Lisbon airport-- closest one to where we need to go, and Hector needed to refuel. So we get a car from here.”

The renting of the car was easier said than done, though-- for some reason, no one would issue them a car. Q suspected that MI6 had put out some sort of warning on their IDs, and from Moneypenny’s face, he was sure that she thought so too. They calmly left, refusing to still be there when whoever had been called got to the dealership.

They caught a cab and showed the man driving that they had cash, and plenty of it. 

Then Q booted up his computer. The black screen appeared almost as soon as his desktop had loaded. 

Where are you?

>Lisbon.

He typed it quickly, afraid to lose whatever connection they had-- he wasn’t online just now. 

>Where are we headed? Just to the Island?

he hadn’t even finished typing that line when Silva responded. 

Restaurante Nau Dos Corvos. My men will meet you there. Just the two of you yes?

>Yes. 

Soon, then, Richard. 

It was a terrifying thought, and he felt the adrenaline of the moment sending his aches to the back of his attention. 

That rush was short lived, though, and ineffectual. The car ride itself took only an hour and a half, and in that time, Q managed to drop off to sleep, his lack the night before and the tensions of the trip catching up to him. 

When they stopped, he woke up and climbed out of the car, still groggy. 

Eve was standing out in front, looking out at the sea, the wind whipping her garments and tugging them snug against her front.   
He wondered at the picture they must cut, she neat and orderly, professional, put together, traveling light and looking fresh, and he tousle haired and sleepy eyed, clad in an overlarge sweater and carrying a bag heavy with electronics. 

There were times when he felt his youth very acutely, like a handicap of sorts, and this was one of those. He felt underprepared and ill equipped. 

Three men, obviously Silva’s sort-- well dressed in flat front, starched and pleated pants, came out from inside the restaurant. They cast significant glances over both Eve and Q, and Q got a dirty, crawling feeling-- knowing they were being sized up; knowing that, of the two of them, he was being judged the lesser threat. Talk about a blow to the ego. Then again, he’d recently been sick, his pallor probably showed it, he had only caught an hour of sleep, and he looked like he’d just wandered in from a bus stop. Still, he would be less intimidating than Eve any day of the week, to the outsider, at least. 

They were approached by the leader of the little group, and Eve stepped up to meet him.

“You are expected by someone?” He asked, his english heavy with his spanish accent, the words sounding thick in his throat. 

“Yes.” Eve’s voice was high, but clear and strong. “Raoul Silva.” She told them. The man’s face broke into a grin, and he shook his head, clearly just as fond of theatrics as his employer. 

“I’m sorry-- I don’t know anyone of that name. Shame, though-- my boss has a guest who is just dying to see his friends.” His eyes flicked to Q, obviously inviting him to rise to the challenge. Q looked away, and the man shrugged and turned, walking back to his men and gesturing that they should go back inside, clearly having decided that these were not the people they were waiting for.

“Tiago Rodriguez.” He all but blurted it, and the man turned, a large, toothy smile on his face.

“Beg pardon?” he asked, clearly baiting Q. He didn’t rise to it.   
“We’re here to see Tiago Rodriguez. Do you work for him?” Q spoke slowly, patiently, as though talking to an idiot child, and the man flushed slightly. Q smirked. 

“The boat is waiting for you. I am Julian, this is Eduardo and that is Tomas.” He gestured at his companions in turn, and they nodded. Q barely flicked his eyes between them, simultaneously glad to have something to call them, and worried for what that might mean for his and Moneypenny’s futures.

“Pleasure. I expect you know who we are?” Eve asked, taking control again. Q was glad to let her. Julian nodded. 

The boat was probably 20 feet long, electric, could seat maybe ten comfortably. It had an awning on and the seats were waterproofed false leather-- but there were silk throw pillows in oranges and reds to make it feel more fancy. 

They settled onto one of the low bench seats, Q and Eve sitting close together more out of preference than lack of room. Q kept his eyes fixed on Julian’s silvery blue slacks, how the hem on the ight leg was slightly twisted and in need of a god ironing. Not that he could talk, really, not with as rumpled as he was after their trip. Not that the lowness of the boat was helping.

When they had reached open waters, and were far enough that it was clear they weren’t being followed, Eduardo took Q’s bag and searched them for weapons. Gone was the Nighthawk, and Q’s computer. They took away their shoes, as well. But all of the additional supplies, the things he had made based on ideas that sprung from reading Bond’s file, were left with them. 

An oversight no doubt provided by Silva’s love of flash and flair. He’d be grateful if his stomach wasn’t butterflying from the view of the island, dock growing ever closer, and Bond’s silver Aston Martin waiting for them. 

The sand and gravel were hot and sharp under the soft skin of their soles, but the discomfort was short lived, and then they were ushered into the back of the car, with Julian and Tomas up front. Eduardo was apparently planning to follow, bringing with him the supplies he’d taken from them.

That was fine; Q didn’t particularly relish the idea of being relegated to the middle back seat because his hips were the narrowest. Shame about the laptop though. If anyone tried to access it, it would be a melted lump before he saw it again.

Not that he didn’t have more waiting where that one came from, but even so. Pity to see it put to waste, but how suspicious it would have looked to have come without it. Like Bond showing up unarmed... though, he supposed that was never really the case. The man could turn his pinky finger into a weapon if need be. 

The ride was short, probably not more than seven hundred meters, the island hardly worth having a car on anyway, but he suspected it was more for the status symbol-- look what we have, Bond and his toys both. Even just a satellite photo of the island would show the gleaming silver paintjob like a red alarm. MI6’s knickers on a flag pole.

Somehow, that idea was comforting, and he found himself glancing at Eve’s necklace, wondering how soon they should activate it. Better to not if they didn’t have to, he supposed. There would be words when they got back, sure, but if they had to commandeer the time and resources of MI6 for this unauthorized jaunt, the words would be far more stern, and the punishments likely severe. 

The last moments of their drive was spent on a bridge-- the building was built on a tiny outlying island just off the main island, and the structure took up the entire mass of the land above water, and judging by the erosion lines on the concrete and rock base, the tide got high enough to be just short of terrifying sometimes. 

They parked on the end of the bridge, which terminated in a staircase carved into the side of the island. The door was opened for them, and Q climbed out first, offering a hand to help Eve out.   
The doors closed as they began the climb up to a front courtyard, completely flat and open, big enough to land a helicopter on, but made so that it would be impossible to surprise the inhabitants. 

The front door of the-- fort, for lack of better word-- opened before they were halfway up the walk, and Silva stood there, his bearing and fashion sense unmistakable, despite his unfamiliar hair style and surroundings. Somehow seeing him here, like this, seemed more real. Seemed more the Silva that Q was used to, not at all like the imposter in the tea shop.

He spread his arms in welcome, his usual joviality obviously not changed by his latest apparent death.   
He looked around him, behind him, encouraging them to admire the bricks, red and rounded with age and the constant battering of the elements, but still strong, and an impressive looming background. 

It was all but a jail, really. They drew before him, and stopped, Q shifting on the balls of his feet, uncomfortable with the idea of walking into the unknown, mostly unarmed, and once again putting himself into a position of powerlessness in Silva’s hands. 

Eve seemed more keen to play the game of chicken. 

“Mister Rodriguez.” She greeted, nodding but refusing to lower her eyes. 

“Miss Monneypenny, what a pleasure to see you in person without the barrel of your gun trained on me.” He took up her hand and pressed a courtly kiss to the back of it. She gave him a tightlipped smile and pulled her hand away, pressing it to her sternum as though to keep it safe from further assault by his lips. Her hand covered the necklace that Q had given her, and somehow that slight reminder of its presence gave him a little flash of hope, of comfort. They still had a back up plan.

“I’ve just as much reason now, but I’m afraid your hands here made sure I wouldn’t be able to.” She sounded light and pleasant, and Q suddenly felt sure that, had it been she and not he kidnapped in the first place, none of this would be happening now-- she had a handle on all of this far too well. 

“Yes, they are such good boys, aren’t they?” Silva looked at Julian and Tomas fondly, and then turned to the side, where Eduardo was just coming up the last of another set of stairs to the left, the boat just barely visible and tethered below.  
They hadn’t had to drive at all, but clearly it was for effect that it had happened. 

“I found them locally-- who knew such talent was kept just lying around in these backwater little areas? Had I had such companions as a child, well...” He sighed. 

“Speaking of companions.” Q interjected. “Where is Bond?” 

“You know, he and I had a wager on how long it would take you to get here. He lost. He seemed to think you wouldn’t show up, yourself. He thought you would find our whereabouts and deploy a rescue team within two hours. Wrong on both counts.” He said it all very conversationally, then clapped his hands together and rubbed them, looking back and forth between the two agents, his enthusiasm obviously undeterred by their treating this as the rescue mission it was.   
“Can I offer you lunch? I was just setting the table when you arrived.” 

“I’d like to see Bond, actually, if it’s all the same to you.” Q was gritting it out now, trying to hold on to his politeness, but everything was changed. It wasn’t just his sorry skin on the line now-- it was Bond, too, and Eve. And it wasn’t just he and Silva to see him grovelling. Eve was here to see if he debased himself like a coward this time, and now he knew the reporting process. He knew the level of exposure that he was dealing with, and the reactions of his coworkers. 

“You do a very poor impression of James, you realize. If it were the other way around, he would have found a way to threaten my life in some meaningful way by now.” Silva assured him. 

“I’m afraid Q and James are very little alike. I, on the other hand--” Eve interjected, and she swung her arm up, a tiny dagger that Q hadn’t known about grasped in her closed fist. Silva caught the swing as easily as if she’d no more than offered him her hand for some sort of courtly dancing. 

“Ah ah ah.” He held her arm and spun her until she was clasped against his chest, her arms crossed across her, and her knife hand in his hand and pressed to her neck. “I would have expected you to teach your friends better, Richard.” He said calmly, meeting Q’s eyes from around Moneypenny. She jerked, obviously having tried to kick him, and he pulled her tighter to his chest.

“Just-- let her go.” Even to him, he sounded tired and unconcerned. “You have the weapon, she isn’t going to try it again. She knows we’re really here for Bond, not to kill you, and without you we’re unlikely to see him alive.” He glared at her as he spoke, driving the point home, and she had the good grace to look both embarrassed and apologetic in her struggles. 

Silva waited a beat, his lips pursed in thought, and then he simply let go of her and took a step backwards, leaving her to trip and have to work to steady herself.   
“Thank you.” Q was feeling bolder, now, more sure of his role in all of this. “Now, Bond, and then lunch, I think we were saying?” He tried to frame it as a polite suggestion, and Eve gave him a look that said she thought he’d gone at least partially insane.

Silva gave Eve a long suffering, apologetic sigh.   
“You see what I had to live with?” he asked, then shook his head. “Bond after lunch. I wouldn’t want to put you off your appetite-- he doesn’t smell particularly good. I’m afraid he has let himself go a bit since he got here.” 

“Perhaps you should have him cleaned up and invite him to dine with us, then. I’d feel bad if any one of your guests wasn’t invited.” Eve looked a moment from throwing her hands in the air and declaring herself the only sane person on the island, and Q knew he was baiting Silva, but he was playing within the rules as he understood them. 

“Then we shall do this. Eve, perhaps you wouldn’t mind going with Tomas? I’m afraid with your manners, we should have you checked for any additional... surprises. Richard, you will come with me, and we will visit dear James, and you can judge if he’s worth the effort of... cleaning up.”

Q looked to Eve, since ultimately it should be up to her-- she was the one who’d been ordered not to let him out of her sight, and she was the one being left alone, here. 

She swallowed, put on her poker face, and nodded. 

“Yes. Show the way.” He spoke with as much resolve as he could muster, and entered after Silva, walking in the direction he gestured only a few steps. He was loathe to leave his back unguarded, and more so to not know what sort of commands Silva may be giving his men. 

"Llevala a conocer a Abuela." He told the man, and all Q caught was ‘grandmother’-- a dead woman, Q knew. He got a bit of a lump in his throat, but had no time to say anything before Eve was whisked off toward the back of the building. 

Silva led him around and through to a door and a set of stairs that descended to the interior of the fort, across a courtyard, up a set of stairs, through a door set into a circular brick inlay in the wall, across an empty room, and down a narrow set of stairs into a tunnel, green with slimy growth thriving on the moist and cold and sunless setting.   
The stairs, though, were maintained, probably specifically because of who was being kept down here.

There was a lantern outside of the single locked door, turned dark and rusty from its tenure. Silva lit the oiled fuse inside, and passed the lamp to Q to hold while he unlocked it.

He went in first, calling out in a sing song.  
“James, your lovers are here.” 

Q held the lantern up behind him as he entered, allowing his eyes a moment to get used to the light in this little room, but when they had, he gasped. 

James was naked and kneeling on a wheeled... bench? It was one of those ergonomic chairs, he realized. The ones where if your bum wasn’t asleep, everything below the knees was. 

His arms were stretched out in a great Y above his head, and one was pulled at least partially out of the socket. His face, blindfolded, was buried against the other arm, cushioned as much as it could be with his cheek against his bicep. His hands lay limp, not even straining against his cuffs any longer, and a slice in his wrist on his right arm, the dislocated one, had dripped all the way down to his chest. 

There was something on the side of his face closest to them, something dark and sticky looking, possibly more blood, likely with mud or something worse mixed into it.   
All of him was grimy and the muscled in his thighs were shaking. 

“Q?” James asked, raising his head just a little, his voice a rough scratch against the too thick air of this cellar. 

“I’m here.” He assured him. “I want him let down.” He directed this at Silva, not bothering to look at him and instead approaching his agent. 

“Are you so sure?” Silva asked, having come up behind Q silently. “Think-- with the three of us all here together, MI6 won’t even dare to send anyone after us. A completed trifecta, none of us is vulnerable. We’re complete.”

“You underestimate both Bond’s and my own loyalty to England. We’re not yours, and we never will be.” He ignored the closeness-- he’d known it was coming, schooled himself to even expect the small touches, the casual reminders of intimacy. He turned to face Silva and thrust the lamp at him. “Give me the keys.”

“Are you not mine? Isn’t he? Don’t you think, for him, you would be? And he for you? I think I already own you both, because you are both here, but it doesn’t have to always be this way. I think, in time, you will come to see how much better this is, how much better we are, than anything England could ever offer-- could ever give.” 

“Give me the keys. Look at his arm! Look at his fingers-- how long have you left him this way? There could be permanent damage, you realize. And then how useful would he be, how much would you want him then?”  
Q’s words were heated, angry and ugly. 

“Oh, Richard, you’re nearly there now-- but look at him. Really look. Think of how you felt when they sent him to question you, when they sent him to teach you to shoot. You could have hated him then, couldn’t you? And yet you wanted him too. Isn’t that true?” Q let Silva turn him, let him walk him closer to James. “Show me.” He commanded. 

He circled around to behind Bond, pulling loose the ends of the chains, hanging against the wall. He unwound them from their tether, and slowly lowered James’s arms, which made him whimper in pain as his shoulder was suddenly bearing its own weight again. 

He stepped forward and caught Bond, no thought behind it, no time for thought in the moment. James rested heavily against him. and for a moment all was well until the chair skittered out from under him and away, across the room, tipping over and clattering violently against the floor.   
Silva looped the long ends of the chains under Bond’s arms and pulled him backwards, securing him against the wall, forcing him to stand on numb and wobbling legs. Q followed quickly, laying rough hands on Silva’s arms, his shoulders, the lamp falling and spluttering but miraculously not going out. 

Its dancing cast macabre shadows across all of their faces, and Silva’s contorted in rage. 

He forced Q to his knees, and shoved him towards Bond. 

“Show me how you feel, Richard.” It came out damn near a snarl, and his head swam with the situation. His knees ached and stung and Bond was before him, his skin radiating clamminess and the smell of mold, though he seemed mostly healthy. 

Silva crouched behind him and pressed himself along Q’s back. Q brought shaky hands up to grasp Bond’s thighs, and Silva reached to between his legs and began to lower his zipper. And just like that he had had more than enough. 

His head crashed back into Silva’s face before he’d even realized he had a plan. He knew that wouldn’t be enough though, and Silva’s strangled cry was followed by a grunt as he threw himself on top of him, and then deployed the succhynolcholine into his neck with the pen. 

The moment Silva had stilled, he was on his feet and freeing Bond. 

“Help me out of here-- is it day? I just want to see the sun.” Bond’s croak had gained a little more voice now, and he pulled his blindfold off with his good hand, before reaching out to press soft touches to Q’s lower lip. 

“It’s day. The sun’s up-- it’s going to be a shock to your eyes, though. How long were you down there?” He wanted to ask what had been done to him, how far Silva had gone, what sort of damage there was that he wasn’t seeing, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It wasn’t the time or place. Escape first, healing after. 

James tried to shrug and ended up gasping.   
He sucked air in through his teeth while Q tried to steady his arm and stopped their slow progress out until the pain had ebbed a little. 

“Don’t know. He toyed with me, set up a schedule that I thought happened every day, but sometimes it was repeated over... probably just a few hours. I couldn’t hear anything, no light through the blindfold to try and gauge time with... just a lot of nothing, except for him. And he’d tell me it had been days when it couldn’t have been more than an hour or two, or not come for ages and tell me he’d only been gone twenty minutes. I’m all jumbled. Feels like months.”

“It wasn’t months.” Q spoke softly, rubbing a careful circle on Bond’s back, trying to offer comfort without hurting him further. “I’m sorry. We got here as soon as we could.”

“I know.” He told him, but Q knew they were both thinking of how long it had taken them to find Q, of his accusations of abandonment. He squeezed Bond’s good arm, but didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t think what else to say. 

They met Eve hurrying down the steps of the courtyard. She held a handgun in front of her, and drew up short to give Bond a distracted, one armed hug while checking behind them.   
“I shot Tomas in the leg-- are you being pursued?” She asked, before turning back to them. 

Bond was wincing from her rough touch to his shoulder, and she blinked.   
“You’re hurt. And naked.” She informed him, turning to Q as though asking for some form of explanation. 

“Can you see about getting that boat? It’s tied up down the steps nearest the front door. We’re a bit slow, just at the moment.” He told her, and Bond frowned but held his silence. 

Eve frowned, too, and looked back and forth between them. 

“Just a moment.” She told them, all business again, and hurried off up the steps. 

“Might as well follow, she’ll have the path cleared by the time we reach it anyway.” Bond muttered, and Q nodded, assisting him in his shuffling. 

They were about halfway up the stairs when Moneypenny returned with a pair of minimally bloodied slacks, in a familiar shade of silvery blue. 

Bond took them gratefully, but stumbled when putting them on pulled at his shoulder, and he threw them to the ground, piqued, and lay a heavy hand on his own arm, obviously attempting to lift it back into place. 

A helpless half sob left him before he bit it off into a much more respectable groan. 

Q didn’t even stop to offer him the option, just crouched and retrieved the slacks, making sure his shoulder was in easy reach of Bond’s good arm. Together they got him covered in thirty seconds flat, neither of them making anything more of it than there was, though Bond didn’t look Q in the eye when he stood.

Eve watched all of this silently, then handed Q the handgun that she’d tucked into the back of her pants at some point.   
“I’ll meet you at the boat.” She said, and her tone was grave and serious.   
She took off again, and she’d been through the door a spare minute before they heard two gunshots in rapid succession. 

Q looked to Bond, unsure if he should leave the man there and follow her, or if it was smarter to stay with him.   
As if hearing his struggle, Bond shook his head.  
“Despite what I say to her face, she’s a damn good shot and she knows what she’s doing. She got whoever it was. It’s her job. She’s good at it. Still, double time, yeah?” 

“Right.”

Three.

It wasn’t until they were pushing away in the boat that Silva appeared, running as if the devil was after him, his face almost unrecognizable in its contortions. He was yelling something into the wind, but his words weren’t loud enough to be heard. a couple of his men followed, and Q couldn’t tell if it was anyone he recognized or not, but he had more pressing matters to attend to.   
Like hotwiring the boat before Silva’s goons could reach them. 

A spark, he quickly twisted the wires together and they were off, speeding across the water back towards the mainland.   
He heard the distant screech of a car grinding through its gears, and Bond groaned. His head jerked to see if the other man was okay, but his eyes were fixed on the shore, and his good hand clasped around the other shoulder, holding it steady while it was loose from the socket.   
“She shouldn’t be making that noise-- they’ve no idea how to treat a lady.” 

Eve snorted from her position at the wheel.   
“And you have?” She challenged, words ringing high and clear over the motor. She looked so natural out here, like she was queen of the sea. All of the seas, really. 

Bond got a twinkle in his eye, a small smirk slid onto his face.   
“I have, but you needn’t take my word for it-- ask Q.”   
Q spluttered but was saved from replying by a well aimed bullet dancing off the side of the boat, a little close to him for his liking. 

“D’you think we might head away from our pursuers a mite bit? We do have the whole ocean, after all...” He suggested waspishly, and Eve rolled her eyes and rolled the wheel, pulling them further out, and hopefully out of range of their shots. 

The island wasn’t overly long, and they soon ran out of land, so Q counted them home free, at least until they passed a ferry headed back towards the island. 

They exchanged a sober glance between the three of them, and then laughed. It would take ages for that old thing to bring them across. What a joke.   
A helicopter buzzed overhead, on its way to the island as well, and then no one was laughing. 

“Richard.” James spoke quietly. “Help me with my shoulder.” 

Under careful direction, he helped lift the arm and pop it back in place, the grunts telling him that he was hurting Bond as much as he was doing him good, but with a final, solid sounding clunk, it slid back in. 

“Thanks, Q, that was... absolutely awful.” Bond groaned, collapsing back onto the seat. He lifted his arm and flexed elbow, wrist, and each of his fingers experimentally. 

“Alright?” Eve asked, and Bond pursed his lips and nodded. 

“Sore, but serviceable. Medical is going to love me, when we get back.” That when, not if, did a great deal for Q’s morale, but he still couldn’t help but be afraid. 

As their feet touched ground, you could just distantly see the chopper from Silva’s island. 

“Let’s find a car.” He suggested, hoping they would politely ignore the strain in his voice. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if they were caught up by Silva again, and the sorts of punishment and restraints he might dream up. He started scanning for a taxi and waved for the one he saw, only to be ignored. 

“No time.” Bond informed him brusquely, and he threw open the door of a car stopped at a light and dragged the owner out of it. “Get in.” He commanded, and Q threw some cash to the man in compensation, probably too much, but that was fine. With any luck, they wouldn’t need it.

Bond didn’t grind the car’s gears, but he did make the tires squeal, and Q flinched from being suddenly propelled backwards against the rear bench seat. 

It took a moment for him to realize it was quiet-- far too quiet.He tipped his head back, studying the sky, and didn’t see the helicopter. 

“Maybe they don’t know which car we’re in?” Eve suggested. 

The rear window shattered above his head, and Q leaned forward instinctually, throwing his hands up protectively to shield himself. 

“I think they’ve figured it out!” Bond shouted as he began weaving through traffic, attempting to get them out of the helicopter’s range. “Eve, can you provide cover?”

“On it!” She snapped, and she unbuckled herself, sliding between the two seats to join Q in the back. 

“I don’t think--” He started, but before he could finish she was half out the back window and firing both handguns at the underbelly of the heli.

“For godssakes, Bond! You have a license to kill, not to break traffic laws!” He cried, bracing himself against the front seats while he held onto Moneypenny’s middle. “Do you even have a license to drive?”

“I think I had someone from Q forge it for me, yeah.” He shot back, whipping the wheel violently until they spun, and began heading backwards to an off ramp they’d missed, fighting against the flow of traffic. 

Moneypenny shot once more, and this one was accompanied with a man hitting the pavement a short moment later.   
And then they were off the open freeway and under an overpass, safe for the moment. 

“We have to get to that plane!” She informed them, sliding back inside. She began climbing back into the front seat, when Q reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her. 

“Your back!” He pointed out, distressed at the lines of red seeping through the fabric of her shirt. 

She shrugged, forcing his hand to fall away.   
“Happens. Worry about it later. We should change cars. Drive like we’re no one special.” She addressed the latter to Bond, who had taken one of the guns from her hand, and was already opening the door. 

He stood in the middle of the lane they weren’t parked in and raised the gun at the next driver to come close.

And so it was that they found themselves in a dark green VW bug, toddling along at the speed limit, as though they hadn’t a care in the world.   
The chopper was still overhead when they got back on the freeway, and there were a good many police cars about, but none stopped them for whatever reason, and the slipped quietly into the stream of traffic. 

They stopped in town so that Q could take the wheel and Bond could doze, the first thing close to fitful sleep he’d probably had since being taken, and in the cramped back of a car being driven illegally in another country while being pursued. Q felt awful, felt like it was more than just a little his own fault. He’d failed his agent, but at least he had him back now. 

He watched James in the rearview mirror in quick glances away from the road. If Eve noticed, she didn’t say so. And so they drove.

Silva was waiting for them at the plane. They tried turning the car around and leaving once they realized, but they found their path blocked. And so they got out of the car and faced the madman face to face. Q’s stomach felt stony with dread. 

Of course it was logical-- lose track of the car, go catch them fleeing the country at the airport-- but damn him for getting that step ahead. 

Their pilot was dead. Eve didn’t show any real emotion-- he saw a tightening in her jaw, but beyond that, her face was a mask. He assumed they’d been friends, and he felt for her-- he did. It was just that they had other, more pressing concerns. He just hoped she could hold together through them. But then, that was part of the job, wasn’t it?

Not for the first time, he began questioning his career choice.

“Was my hospitality truly so underwhelming that you couldn’t even say goodbye?” Silva asked, rising from his perch atop the plane’s loading steps. 

Eve snorted and Q gestured angrily at Bond.  
“You call this hospitality?” He looked down at his bare feet, scalding on the tarmac. 

“I made you some more of my grandmother’s recipes, since you loved the last one so much. How many times have you tried to recreate the dish since you’ve been home? Your browser history on your laptop shows fifteen searches for similar recipes. They all lack a little something, don’t they?” He goaded, ignoring their protests. 

Q’s ears reddened, and he felt a bit like a bullied child, having the words of his journal quoted at him. 

“Sod off, Silva.” Bond said, and Q wanted to cheer at how sure he sounded, how strong and how devoid his voice was of any sign that he’d been recently been held hostage by this man. 

“Come home, James, Richard, Eve. Come home, relax, let’s put all this unpleasantness behind us. There’s no reason we can’t discuss this like rational adults.” 

Q did a quick count of the visible guards that Silva had.

There were five surrounding them, and likely more, further off, with their sights trained on each of their chests.

“Rational adults don’t kidnap the friends they’re trying to make.” Eve pointed out, fiercely. “They don’t kill the peoples’ other friends, for getting in the way.” Her voice wavered a bit, but stayed strong. 

“Do they not? Adults find friends and hold them to them with secrets and blackmail and a sense of debts owed. Adults hold children to them as possessions, capable of cutting off their contact with all of the outside world if they so desire. Adults hold lovers to them with guilt and pleasure and the threat that no one will replace them, that the other is broken beyond being desirable. And countries-- countries hold their subjects to them with lies, with threats under the heading of treason, with false senses of nationalism, created to keep you from leaving, or asking questions, or betraying the ruling party.” He paused, watching them, and then opened his arms, showing off the fact that he was unarmed. 

“I haven’t lied to you. I have threatened you-- a necessary evil, when you have lived with it for so long that it is all you respond to-- but it would not last.”

“You beat the shit out of James!” Q cried out, outraged and offended.

Bond made a noise in the back of his throat, and Silva barked out, “Wrong!”

“What--?” Q started, but was interrupted by a sea of gunfire. Eve tackled him, sending him falling into the backseat of the car. Over her shoulder, he could see Bond advancing, arm outstretched, gun raised. 

He heard the shot, isolated, somehow, amidst all the others, and saw it impact with the middle of Silva’s forehead. As if in slow motion, he saw him fall, saw as Bond took a shot to the back, and stumbled forward. He lost sight of him as he fell beyond the window of space that Q could see, and he squeezed his eyes closed shut, feeling the tears welling up behind his lenses.  
Where had it gone wrong? The shooting had started out of nowhere, and they would die now for it. How--?

The gunfight was over before it really began. He would later learn that Silva’s men had been outnumbered. MI6 had paired with the SIRP, and responded to Eve setting off her necklace alert the moment that she had been asked to separate from Q. It had taken some time to mobilize, but the moment they were able, they got in position and took out the men with the guns. 

And just like that, it was over. When the firing shot, Eve eased her way off from atop Q, and climbed out of the car, carefully, unsure if her actions would cause further fire. 

Q had no such reservations. He’d just gotten used to the idea of being dead, but the idea that Bond was, after all this, all this work and effort and worry and guilt-- he couldn’t live with it.   
He hurried across the hot black top of the runway to the shade beside the plane, and knelt there, running ungentle hands over James’s arms. 

“Bond. Bond, James, please.” He’s a blubbering mess, and that seizing grip of fear has made his head go all muddled again. 

And then Bond groaned. 

“James.” it came out on a breath, more like a prayer than anything he’d done since grammar school, and he pulled him to him, barely sparing a glance to see-- to know, really know, this time, that Silva was dead. 

M clapped a hand on Q’s shoulder. 

“Let’s get him to the hospital, and then get all of you home. You and Miss Moneypenny have some explaining to do.” His kind tone grew hard, and Q winced, but nodded. 

“Of course, M.” He intoned dully, pulling himself back together. 

“And Q?” M asked, making him tense. 

“Sir?”

“Good work.”

 

 

Four.

Eve was the only one who bowed to M’s wishes and went through the week of therapy he’d requested for all of them. 

Bond and Q, on the other hand, offered only backhanded threats-- “Is your email still functioning as it should, M?”, “Is that your niece? She’s lovely.”-- which M was relatively sure Q had learned from Bond, and not the other way around, though he hadn’t known either man well enough to be sure. 

He’d once tried to ask Eve, but she had just given him something that hovered between a bitter smile and a grimace, and excused herself to see her counsellor, so he let the matter drop. Stubborn children, the lot of them. 

They worked well together, though. After the incident with Silva, when they had been allowed back to their respective active duties, their communication was so improved, you’d think they’d gone to school together. 

Eve still requested to stay out of the field, and that was fine-- he couldn’t imagine not having her as his right hand to keep the place running. With some work, some training and effort and a few (at least ten, preferably more) years under her belt, she might make a good replacement for him. 

Meantime, he kept an eye on Q and 007. They could still be trouble, could still decide that between the two of them, they could be the next Silva. But, he doubted it. Somehow, whatever they had, or didn’t have, it was working. It wasn’t getting in the way. He’d reviewed recordings of their audio contact while on duty, and there was flirting-- there was always flirting, though. It took the stress out of things. Q kept a clear head, gave good advice, opened doors, made sure things exploded on time... and Bond’s shot had improved. He was performing better, running faster, saving the day... still turning off surveillance for his dalliances, but what was he going to do?

Her majesty’s service made mad demands on all of their lives. It was good to see these two finding ways of shouldering that, and carrying on.

And if sometimes a black window popped up on one or another screen throughout the MI6 building, and it displayed a single question mark that flickered for a moment before disappearing, no one commented. 

MI6 was in charge of gathering intelligence, of course, but it kept secrets very well, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part!  
> Thanks to everyone who read it, played along, and sent me messages about it— I really really appreciate the input, and I promise next time it won’t be an accidental play along fic!
> 
> It will also be much harder, since I feel like everybody was expecting more (which I can definitely provide— I was just afraid of making you work too hard for it!).
> 
> But, some of your theories of over thinking it made it into the story, thanks to my having to rewrite everything. So, keep an eye out for some shout outs to my readers in the text itself. 
> 
> And, it’s been a fun, awesome ride, and I appreciate everyone’s patience with me missing my deadline. 
> 
> I promise that won’t happen next time, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Migraine-sky did a glorious illustration of a scene from this story--Make sure you check it out and give her the love she deserves!  
> http://migraine-sky.tumblr.com/post/45017915143/you-never-aim-a-gun-at-something-unless-you
> 
>  
> 
> For updates, ramblings, and if you just want to say hi, you can find me at MostFacinorous.tumblr.com!


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